


Wish Gone Awry

by FidotheFinch



Category: Maximum Ride - James Patterson
Genre: Be Careful What You Wish For, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Gen, but nobody dies, school bombings, there's Fax if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 83,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: Life sucks when you're a mutant bird-kid on the run. Especially when you're the leader of the Flock. So when Max sees a shooting star, she makes a wish. But sometimes what you wish for isn't what you want. (Cross-posted from ffn.net)- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -I had heard somewhere that if you wish on a shooting star, then your wish will come true. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, or maybe it's my lack of sleep again, and I know the probability of anything happening is, if any, point-zero-zero-zero-zero-one percent, but…I cross my fingers, shut my eyes, and will with my whole heart."I wish the School never existed."





	1. Dreadful Dreams

"U and A. On the count of three." My voice is barely audible. I catch Fang's eyes and flick my own to the window high above the warehouse floor. He nods almost imperceptibly. "One."

Six bird kids simultaneously whip out their wings and jump into flight. Fang covers his head and barrels through the window, sending shards of shattered glass flying at the mob of Erasers below. Nudge, Iggy, and Angel are hot on his heels, er, wings. I begin to follow Gazzy out the window when I see the flash of a gun.

"Gaz!" He stops flapping and drops a few feet. The bullet buries itself in the wall a foot away from his head. I give Gazzy a boost out of reach of the Erasers while the gun is being reloaded, but before he can get out the window another bullet whizzes past. A quick scan of the ground below reveals three more muzzles, sights set on _moi_.

Looks like I'll have to do this the hard way.

I free fall towards an Eraser, picking up speed as I plummet, and kick out my feet at the last second. They land squarely in the Eraser's chest, knocking him and me to the ground and sending his gun skittering across the floor.

I manage to whack an Eraser in the face as I spread my wings for lift off. Something catches on my shirt, and next thing I know, glass bites into my back as I hit the floor. I manage to get a few feet off the ground on my second attempt at being airborne when a different Eraser jumps and grabs one of my legs; my ankle pops painfully as my wings take me up and his body starts to drag me down. Lucky for me, he fails to notice my other leg before it stomps decisively on his noggin. He crumples into another Eraser, but my feet have already made contact with the floor.

With the Erasers closing in, there's not enough room to spread my wings. My ankle throbs as I sprint for the only other exit: the door. An Eraser tries to grab me but only manages to rake its claw up my arm. I admit it, I cringe. A gun is fired. The bullet bounces off the floor next to my feet.

Suddenly, there seem to be another three Erasers between me and my exit. I backpedal to keep myself from running into them and turn right. More Erasers. I manage to kick up my speed a few notches. With a leap made half of faith and half of mutant bird kid, my feet clear the Erasers' heads. I almost smile to myself when my wings catch the air.

That's when everything takes a turn for the worse. On the third down stroke of my wings and already fifteen feet off the ground, two bullets pass me. A third passes through my side.

I fall.

It takes only two minutes for them to push me down to my knees with my arms pinned behind me. A new record.

I hear a laugh. "Well, well, well. What do we have here? The great Maximum Ride, in all her glory, _graces_ us with her presence." An Eraser bearing a gun and shiny boots steps out from the crowd surrounding me. "What do you think we should do with this birdie, boys? Maybe we should cook it up and eat it for breakfast this morning—"

I can't help but break his monologue. "I'm sure I'm too tough for your taste. You prefer the easy meals, right?" I earn a hard slap to the face.

But he doesn't seem to get the whole monologue-is-such-a-waste-of-time thing. He continues, with a venomous glare towards me. I match his gaze. "Perhaps we could put it in a cage and make it sing for us—"

I almost laugh. "There are two things wrong with that theory, the first being that you definitely don't want to hear me sing, and the second being that you could never, under any circumstances, make me."

The Eraser grins crookedly and walks towards me. He takes one of my closed wings with an unnaturally strong hold and painfully stretches it out, up, and behind me so I can't see what he's doing. I can feel his grimy paws gliding over my feathers. Suddenly, he takes a handful and yanks them out. My wing flinches back so hard I almost pull a muscle. I taste blood and realize I've bitten-still biting-my lip. The Eraser struts in front of me and dangles the feathers in my face. Tiny beads of blood drip onto the floor. At least feathers don't bleed much.

"You're going to have to try harder than that, dog breath." My voice sounds more stable than I feel. The Eraser restraining my arms clenches his hands, making my fingers go numb. I try unsuccessfully to shimmy my way out of his grasp. He holds tighter and starts digging his claws into my skin. I hiss when a nail sinks into the slashes down my arm.

That's when it occurs to me: they haven't tried to put me under yet. No mysterious syringes or bulky, bottle-shaped pocket bulges. Heck, I haven't even caught sight of a chloroform-soaked rag yet.

This is bad.

The head honcho gestures to the door. "At this very moment, your precious Flock is restrained and at gunpoint outside. One wrong move and they all disappear. You didn't really think we'd be stupid enough to leave the perimeter unprotected?"

"You've proved yourself pretty dumb before." The Eraser sneers and kicks me in the stomach. My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and leaning forward puts a strain on my already aching arms.

Through my grit teeth, I spit, "Kicking the bird kid when she's already down? What a gentleman." I stop wriggling for a second, eyeing the sizable fists of the hybrid. "Why don't you even the playing field a little bit? Tell your goon to let go of me, and we'll fight fair, one-on-one."

The Eraser laughs and leans into me. When he speaks, I can feel his hot breath on my face. "I don't do fair." He cups his hands and claps my ears. I can't help but scream as my ear drums burst. The Eraser's sick grin forms words I can't hear.

A door opens behind the Erasers. My heart leaps when Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel enter; it sinks lower than ever when I see the guns pointed at the base of their skulls. Tears stream down their bruised, bleeding faces. Iggy is dragged in behind them, unconscious, with blood seeping from a wound in his head and shoulder. Lastly, Fang. An Eraser holds each limb, literally carrying him through the door. His dark wings drag on the floor, leaving a trail of feathers.

The Erasers move aside to give me the best view possible. I feel the vibrations of laughter through the floor. Or maybe I'm shaking. They line the Flock up against the wall and force them to their knees. My stomach lurches with understanding.

They're going to execute my family.

I can't hear my own desperate cries. I shake hard enough to make the Eraser holding my arms let go. Instead, he wraps his arm around my neck in a choke hold, too tight, cutting off my air supply. I can't scream anymore. My breath comes in gasps.

I take one last look at my Flock. Angel, watery-eyed, shaking from head to toe. Gazzy, trying and failing to put on a brave face. Nudge, frozen like a deer in the headlights. Iggy, awake enough now to hold himself upright, silently searching his pockets for a bomb, not finding any.

Everything stops. The lead Eraser raises his hand. I meet Fang's eyes. Dark. Deep.

The back of my head registers the signal from the spawn of Hell.

Fang mouths one word. Next thing I know, everything else comes into painfully sharp focus as I watch my Flock die. Five bullets, each landing squarely in the chest of its victim. A silent scream rips its way up my throat. The Eraser holding my neck tightens its grip. My vision blurs with tears and a lack of oxygen.

The last thing my brain processes before I black out is a single word. The last thing Fang ever said.

_Max._

It echoes in my head.

_Max._

_Max. Wake up._

_Wake up, Max. It's just a nightmare._

_It's just a nightmare._

_Nightmare…_

_Nightmare…_

When my fumbling fingers are met with another's hand, my eyes shoot open. The first thing to register is my Flock's worried faces. The second is that my clothes are sticking to me with sweat. The third is that I am lying under the tree I fell asleep in last night.

_I fell out of a tree._

_Again._

A silent signal cues Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel to disperse towards their respective branches. Fang helps me sit up, but doesn't let go of my hand. We sit in comfortable silence.

When the Flock is asleep, Fang asks me, "Nightmares?" I reply with a nod. They have plagued me for almost a fortnight now, and, besides the obvious psychological impact of helplessly watching your family die in various painful ways every night, I have gotten about four hours of sleep in the past week. Now, I know the tough Maximum Ride can "go three days without sleep, food, water, or even oxygen to breathe," but something about this is different. A constant paranoia boils my stomach. My fight-or-flight instinct keeps the Flock at a standstill for three days, and then we book it across a state in the next twelve hours. Somebody is always watching me, or at least it feels like it. And not to mention that I haven't been able to sleep in a tree without falling out of it for the past four-make that five-days.

All in all, I am pretty sure the Flock thinks I've bonked my head a few times too many.

Fang and I stay up the rest of the night to keep watch. I tried to get him to catch some shut-eye, but he refused, claiming that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again anyways. I'm thankful for his lie.

I start to silently muse, as is typical when intently staring at an unchanging horizon. Normal kids, at this time of year and this time of night, would be shooting off fireworks and catching fireflies, or staying up late to watch bad horror movies and shove their faces full of popcorn. Perhaps there're even some people with their eyes glued to a good ole' game of Solitaire on their computer. And although I'm happy to be free of school or work or whatever kids my age are doing these days, I can't help but feel—jealous?—of the normal people. "Normal" people do "normal" things; mutant freaks stay up all night hoping their throats won't be ripped out in their sleep. Sometimes I think about how different life would be if the Flock wasn't raised in cages. Simpler. Kinder. Better.

I shake my head. As much as I hate how I got them, my wings make me who I am. Life wouldn't be better; in fact, I bet it would be worse. Like, who would eat the chocolate? And who would save wayward rabbits from the jaws of hungry wolves? Without me, Colorado's entire food chain would be irrevocably destroyed!

Yeah. Definitely.

At some point during the night, when the moon is long gone and the sun only two hours away, a beam of light steaks across the sky. Fang doesn't notice, and I don't say anything.

I had heard somewhere that if you wish on a shooting star, then your wish will come true. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, or maybe it's my lack of sleep again, and I know the probability of anything happening is, if any, point-zero-zero-zero-zero-one percent, but…

I cross my fingers, shut my eyes, and will with my whole heart.

"I wish the School never existed."


	2. Missing Mutants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max realizes she's made a terrible mistake. Just not how.

I wake up with my cheeks pillowed on a nice bed of dirt. Nothing new, but still totally uncomfortable. Why didn't I sleep in the tree again?

Wait. When did I fall asleep?

I open my eyes to a well-lit backdrop of green foliage. Sunlight sneaks down to the forest floor in dusty shafts. What time is it, anyways? Why didn't Fang wake me up before sunrise?

Speaking of which, where is he? I groggily climb to my feet to look around. The fire must have burned down to absolutely nothing; a small patch of dirt is the only proof there ever even was one. Although, didn't we choose to light the fire there because of the dirt? Anyways, Fang's probably out getting firewood. It's usually Gazzy's job, but the last few days have been kind of rough, and, knowing Fang, he's probably letting everyone sleep in.

I can fix that.

Recognizing the tree the Flock spent the night in, I knock on the bark a few times (note to self: don't do that again) and half-yell, "Hey, you guys up?"

There's no response. Typical.

I roll my eyes and haul myself onto the lowest branch. "Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey. Actually, Iggy, what's for breakfast?" Trust the blind kid to be able to make a squirrel edible. My stomach growls in agreement. "I'm starving where I stand." Still nothing. I huff, pulling myself up the last couple feet to the branch he slept in. "Don't make me pull your feathery butt out of . . . this tree?"

He's not there.

Huh, guess he got up on his own. Uncommon, but not unheard of. Maybe he's catching breakfast.

Gazzy would know. "Hey, Gaz, do you know. . ." He's not on his branch, either. He, um, went with Iggy? A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I shimmy to the highest branches that will support weight, where Nudge and Angel usually perch. I don't even have to make it all the way up; it's pretty clear I'm the only birdkid in the tree when the branches snapping under my shoes doesn't cause anyone to spring into action.

I return to the clearing by myself, without even the charred remains of a campfire to prove I'm not alone. What I wouldn't give for Fang to sneak up behind me, smirking at how I fell asleep while keeping watch. He wouldn't be wrong.

I automatically expect the worse. My own body is unscathed, but that doesn't mean the Flock got so lucky. Great. All I need is to chase the Flock across the country because some more wacko Erasers…

I have to slam on my mental brakes. There's no way I would sleep through an ambush. Besides, there are no signs of a scuffle, no drug-induced lethargy, and the obvious fact that _I'm still here_. Unless, of course, the School took a GIANT leap in technology, hired assassin-ninjas to kidnap the Flock, and they somehow missed the very obvious winged-bird-kid completely knocked out and right next to another—captured-experiment. And although Erasers have proved themselves ridiculous numerous times, that scenario is just a little too far-fetched.

Instead, I have to think rationally. The Flock probably…just got hungry. Yeah, hunger; a typical adjective associated with mutants. We saw a town not three quarters of a mile away just before we landed; towns are usually full of food. Food, once digested, gets rid of hunger. Therefore, the Flock probably went to town. To get food. Because they were hungry.

And they left me here.

I am close to smacking myself in the forehead. Once again, my ideas prove a bit dubious. Better than my first theory, but still unbelievable.

I stand akimbo where the fire used to be, take a long look at the place where my Flock is not, and make a decision. If they're in trouble, I've got to help them. But first, I'll check the town. Maybe they really did just drop in.

So, with a final survey of my surroundings, I whip my wings open and take off towards civilization.

**~xXx~**

Twelve garbage bins, eight restaurants, and sixteen street corners later, I slink into an alley between a deli and antique furniture store and begin to pick scraps of junk out of my hair. Unless they're playing put-put or raiding someone's kitchen, they've somehow managed to get into the mall. Read: I've got to make myself look decent enough that other teenagers will accept me as "normal."

So I brush dirt and dust off my jeans and windbreaker, flip my hair, and practice my normal-teenager smile. _Here goes nothing._

The size of the Ridgehelm mall is proportionate with the size of the town. From the outside, I find thirty-six windows, five doors, and a skylight. From the inside, I find three fast food joints, a handful of stores, and a couple beauty salons. The amount of people? Minimum. Honestly, I'm confused at first. Not only is it a half-empty mall, but the Flock is pretty smart when it comes to getting food, and when it comes to food, malls are not the best option. In fact, shopping malls are pretty much an avoid-at-all-cost scenario. Bird kids and security don't mix.

Nevertheless, without anywhere else to search for my missing feathery friends, I decide to look around a little more.

The first store I pass is filled to the brim with baubles, gadgets, and miscellaneous junk. I walk by without a second glance. The second smells like someone cleaned the carpets with cologne. Loud music blasts from the entrance. I start to walk away, but hesitate. If I don't find the Flock here, who's to say that I won't have to search elsewhere? A disguise could come in handy. I won't walk around with a trench coat and fedora or as a clown, but, as Ella taught me, a touch of that evil gloop called makeup, some over-priced designer clothing, and a bit of sparkly jewelry goes a long way. Especially when your normal clothing consists of what's practical and comfortable.

I go in.

The music and smell bombard my senses, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I find myself staring at a pair of pre-ripped jeans, wondering why anyone would pay money for jeans that wouldn't last as long. I smirk. My own jeans could pass as designer.

A familiar feeling prickles the back of my neck. _Somebody is watching me._ I whip around and find that I'm standing nose-to-nose with a face I see frequently.

" _Fang."_ The boy standing almost uncomfortably close to me (if I didn't spend the first fourteen years of my life how I did, that is) stares, not saying anything. I would have at least expected a smirk. Instead, Fang gives a full-blown, totally surprising smile, teeth and all.

"Hey. You new in town?"

"Fang? I've—" I cut myself off and drag him away from a cluster of teenagers "discreetly" whispering and pointing in our direction. I study them as I talk under my breath. "I've been looking for you all day. Where are the kids?" He stares at me, the hand gripping his arm, and the space between us.

"Sorry. Did you say something?" I huff in exasperation and raise my voice.

"Very funny, Fa—" Suddenly small details—shorter hair, cleaner skin, a definite lack of the scent associated with living on the run–snap into focus. He pulls his arm from my grasp. But his look of 'this-girl-is-wacko' swiftly melts into an expression foreign to me.

"Like I was saying earlier, my friends and I are heading to the food court. I was wondering if you would care to join us?" Another flashy smile. He gestures to the gaggle of adolescents I pulled him away from earlier.

"I…uh…" _What?_ The snarky, quick-witted Maximum Ride: speechless.

"It's on me." The boy with dark hair pats his pocket, full of wallet. _Well, I can't pass on free food, can I?_ And, implausible as it may seem, maybe this Fang clone can tell me what on dear planet Earth is going on. So I plaster on what I hope is an easy, maybe flirtatious smile, and lie through my teeth.

"Sounds like fun."


	3. Free Food

The man behind the Astroburger counter looks at the Fang clone and me as though we've sprouted wings. (A bit of birdkid humor there.) "So let me get this straight. You want eighteen Astroburgers, thirteen Comet Curly Fries, twenty Galactic Gulps, and eight Planet Pies." He looks over Not-Fang's shoulder for the rest of the party. His posse is hanging back by indoor trampolines. It's big enough to be somewhat intimidating, but nowhere large enough to order all the food. Cue moi.

The cashier's eyes slide back to me. "Would that be everything?" I can't help but catch a hint of sarcasm in that last sentence.

"Yes." The guy doesn't do anything, so I continue. "Thanks." He rolls his eyes in exasperation and starts calculating our total. Not-Fang pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Hey, thanks for the food..."I trail off.

"Nick." Not-F-er, Nick responds with another one of those smiles. I blush when I find myself staring. What is wrong with me? It's not really Fang. . . not that I think of Fang that way or anything. "Why don't you go find us a table? It will probably take a while for them to fill the order."

"Sure." I turn on my heel, notice the posse, and ask, "How many are eating with us?"

Nick shrugs. "Don't worry about them. They know what to do." Um, okay? I brush crumbs off a seat far enough away to not cause suspicion and close enough I can hear the conversation. There are even conveniently-placed, reflective napkin dispensers that double as rear view mirrors. I can sit with my back to the Astroburger counter without having to worry about a sneak attack.

And, you know, watch Nick.

I study his posture from behind. He's carrying his weight in the balls of his feet, so more in the front than most people. To compensate for the weight of his wings? The curve of his back isn't too lumpy, but who knows what he could be hiding under that jacket? He plants his hands on the counter next to the register and leans over. If I didn't know any better, I would say his posture is threatening. I flick my eyes to his posse, but they don't notice or they choose not to. I'm beginning to get an idea of what kind of town this is. Nick's voice is low, but my birdkid hearing easily picks it out from the general chatter of the food court."Reno, put this on the tab." Reno, the poor guy behind the counter, looks put out, and he opens his mouth to complain, but Nick cuts him off with a look.

"By the way, the shipment came in last night. Consider this my payback." He looks around to make sure nobody's watching, only briefly glancing in my direction. Then he pulls and bundle from a hidden pocket in his jacket and drops it in front of Reno.

Reno grabs and stuffs it under the counter, stage-whispering, "Dude, not here! There are people watching!"

Nick casually looks around again, nodding when he catches the eye of someone in his posse. "Don't worry. We've got it covered," he says smoothly.

"Order up!" Reno's coworker calls. There are three trays of food on the counter. Nick glares at the coworker until he disappears in the back. An arrogant smirk on his face, Nick picks up the first tray.

In a moment of panic, Reno grabs Nick's shirtsleeve, almost toppling the stacks of paper cups. "Look man, I appreciate the gesture, but I can't keep covering for you. My boss has noticed-"

Nick shrugs Reno's hand off. "Reno, you need to get your priorities straight. Who are you more afraid of?" Reno's swallow is visible from here. Nick gives one last glare in Reno's direction. When he reaches my table, I pretend I've been picking at my nails.

"The food's ready." I look up, and almost startle at Nick's smile. Boy, the kid can switch expressions like Angel switches between favorite stuffed animal.

While I unwrap my first burger, two or three teens from Nick's group break away and pull up a table. It doesn't distract me from the two who slip through a door marked "Employees Only," though. Eventually the rest of them, all twelve, realize the food is ready and join Nick and me.

I observe them over my third Astroburger. They don't seem like much of a threat. Of course, neither did the Fang clone. When he starts telling a story to the rest of the group, I find it easy to stare unnoticed. He didn't order as much food as me, so there's a give-away he can't be a mutant. My eyes narrow. Unless he knows I'm looking for evidence. I say his name quietly under my breath. He takes no notice. Alright then, not a mutant. Which means he's not a clone, just a doppelganger? It seems unrealistic. I smirk. Like anything in my life would be considered realistic under normal circumstances.

I suddenly realize everybody's gone quiet. I look up from stuffing my face with Comet Curly Fries and realize they're all staring at me.

Great. What did I do this time?

I swallow my mouthful of fried goodness. "Uh..."

Nick looks a little exasperated. "What is your name?" Geesh. How many times has he asked me?

Obviously, I'm not going to tell him diddly-squat. "It's Marley. I just moved here." Nick doesn't look like he believes me, so I continue. "My parents work with a pharmaceutical company, so we move around a lot." Well, at least the moving is true. I could've gone with the missionary thing again, but that works better when I have Flock members present to play the part of my adopted siblings.

A boy that could be the poster child for teenage weightlifting asks, "You just moved here? What neighborhood do you live in?" They all watch me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

I force myself to blush. "I, uh, don't remember the name?"

"Well, there's the Red Creek neighborhood, the Ridgehelm area-"

I shrug apologetically. "I don't think I would recognize it if you said it. But it's in. . . let's see. . ." I pretend to look around, then gesture in a vague direction that could be interpreted almost any way. "That way. I came to the mall from that direction."

This seems to be the right answer, because the group exchanges glances with one another. I catch a subtle nod between Nick and the weightlifter. So, an interrogation?

I can do that.

A blonde brute at the head of the table asks about my family. I reply almost flippantly. "Mom and Dad are high-class paper-pushers at MedGate. They just got promoted, so we had to move here. They aren't around as much, because they work long hours. I've got a little brother, too. His name is Marcus."

There's a flurry of chuckles. "Marley and Marcus?"

I roll my eyes and sigh dramatically. "I know, right? What were my parents thinking? Anyways, I think he'll be going to the middle school in the fall." I pause a moment, gauging their reactions. I think I'm convincing them. "Oh, and my mom would kill me if I didn't include our pet parakeet, Fido. You know, because it's ironic?"

A girl with a half dozen ear piercings inquires as to my hobbies. I'm already making up my embellished reply about knitting when she elaborates. "You're in really good shape." Great. Am I going to have to explain my love-hate relationship with gymnastics, too? I open my mouth to explain, but an all-too familiar feeling cuts me off.

I whip my head around to watch as another group of young adults enters the food court. The two teens who snuck out earlier are with them. A boy with a shaved head surveys the area before his eyes land on our table. Nick stands, making some kind of meaningful eye contact with the guy. Nick's posse watches him. The guy slowly buries his hand in his jeans pockets and turns away, followed by the group he's with.

Nick does that macho chin thrust thing and suddenly everyone is dropping napkins and food back onto the table. They follow shaved-head's group out.

Nick watches them go with a critical eye. Then, seeming to remember me, he flashes an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Something came up." Then he's gone, too.

I'm absolutely itching with curiosity. I want to play detective, follow the teens to wherever they're going. But I know better. (Not that that usually stops me). This time, though, I have bigger fish to fry. Nick was my only lead, and only because he looks like Fang, but it's pretty clear that he has nothing to do with the School now. If I get distracted again, I may never find the Flock.

My stomach growls. I grab a paper bag and stuff it full of fries and half-eaten burgers. Searching means flying, and flying means I'll need food again, and soon.

I exit the mall with my stash and go in the opposite direction of Fang's doppelganger.


	4. Pretentious Punks

When I finally land in a tree to rest, the sun has shimmied below the horizon. I wish I had the luxury to do the same. My back aches from flying all day, and I ate my last stale french fry a long time ago. The worst part, though, is that I haven't found a trace of the Flock. No large feathers, no trails of fast food trash-I scan the horizon again just to be sure-no smoke from the night's campfire. Exhausted, I find a sturdy branch to catch a breather on.

I realize I've actually started to drift off when I hear a noise. In an instant I'm on high alert. I watch the undergrowth in the dark, keeping completely still. A billion scenarios run through my head. If it's Erasers, maybe they did catch the Flock, and now they're after me. If I beat them, they won't help me. If I let them get me, they could lead me back to my family. I can worry about escaping afterwards. A flashlight's beam cuts through the murky darkness below me. I plan my attack and shift my weight in preparation for takeoff. Another beam joins the first. I unfurl my wings, ready to pounce on my pursuers.

When the flashlights get close enough that I can see their holders, I leap off the branch and. . .

back pedal like a madwoman. Instead of the hoard of Erasers I was waiting for, two less-than-beefy teens with bad facial hair appear out of the brush. I grab a nearby branch and hoist myself up and out of sight. And just in time.

"Hey. Did you hear that?" The lights spin around, searching the nearby trees. I hug my trunk and start to slowly pull in my wings. If I had owl wings, this wouldn't be a problem, but no, the School values speed over stealth. I hiss as my left wing snags on a nearby branch. "Over there!" I pull it in hard, twig and all. A circle of light glances over where my wing was a millisecond before. "There! Did you see that?"

"Don't be stupid. That was just a bird. Come on, we're going to be late!" I recognize the second voice. Reno, the cashier from earlier. He continues, "and you know how Nick is when people are late." I freeze. Nick? As in, Not-Fang Nick? The two boys pass the tree I'm in and continue on their way. I have half a mind to follow them and find out what Nick is up to. Then I remember that I need sleep or I can't find my Flock. I flop down heavily on my branch to catch some shut-eye.

Squawk! I open my eyes to find a very annoyed blue jay an inch from my face. It stares me down with one eye, and then the next, screeching the whole time. I sit up and try to shoo it away. It lands on the branch and hops from side to side, shrieking. "Oh, shut up, bird brain!" I whisper. It stands fast.

Two light beams land on my face.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" I roll my eyes as Reno and the other dude show themselves.

"Apparently, two boys who can't come up with better dialogue than what they read in their precious comic books."

"Blonde, and snarky. I like it," Reno's friend remarks. I purse my lips.

"You aren't gonna like it when I shove my foot up your -"

"Hey! There's no reason for you to be aggressive! You're that girl from the mall, right? The one who ordered all that food." I huff at the description. "Why don't you just...just come down? We won't hurt you." He holds his hands up surrender-style to show off his lack of weapons. Yeah, right.

"I think I'm gonna pass. Birdy and me, we're catching up on life." I nod my head towards the little bugger. He's still screaming at me. Maybe hoping he'll annoy me out of the tree? The two boys lean in towards each other, obviously discussing something in private. Remember my mutant hearing? Yeah, well, I hear all about their lack of faith in me, but frankly, I don't plan on sticking around long enough for them to trust me. When they turn their backs, I silently start to scale the tree. The foliage at the top should be thick enough the boys can't see me when I take off.

Flying in circles for a few more hours. What fun. I inwardly groan at the thought. Flying for so long today is enough to make any birdkid tired, but add that with my lack of sleep the last few nights, and I'm absolutely exhausted.

"Hey. Do you hear that?" I stop.

"Hear what? I don't hear anything."

"Exactly."

I glare at the blue jay, a few branches below me, and say, "Your timing is impeccable." It glares at me for a split second and takes off. I stare after it more angrily than I should. Aren't we supposed to be related or something?

"Where do you think you're going?" Reno's friend-I think I'll call him Ricky-growls.

I give the two boys my best glare. "Wherever I want to." I turn to climb higher, expecting my glare to frighten them off. I hear a click behind me, and I freeze. They wouldn't-

A shot echoes through the forest. Birds, including my "friend", scatter everywhere. Crap.

They have a gun.

"Look, blondie-" I shoot daggers at them with my eyes. At least, I pretend to. "You're coming with us."

I roll my eyes. As if. "You'll have to get me down first." With that, I plop down on a branch, smirking. I'm too high up for them to throw anything, and they can't tell from where they are, but I doubt these branches would support anybody whose bones aren't hollow. Sure, they could shoot, but odds are they've never even aimed a gun before; aiming up, in the dark, and through a tree give me ample confidence in my bluff.

The two teenagers on the ground mirror my expression. Reno raises his gun. To my surprise, his hand isn't shaking. My smirk falters a little.

Ricky chuckles darkly. "I don't think she realizes that we're pros." He pulls out his own, matching handgun.

And aims it at my head.

And pulls the trigger.

Now, if I wasn't a paranoid mutant freak, I would be dead. Luckily-er, not so luckily-I am, so I'm expecting the bullet to possibly hit too close. What I'm not expecting is the trunk behind me to spit bark at me when it's hit by the bullet. Do bullets ricochet off trees? I don't know, but I duck anyways. Unfortunately, I misjudge my shift in weight and accidentally throw myself off the branch. Effective, sure, but not really what I was going for.

Free falling is a lot more fun when you aren't dodging branches and have wings that will catch you before going splat.

But under the circumstances, I think a rolled ankle is the least of my worries.


	5. Precarious Position

For the record, I can run faster than an Eraser. Heck, even Angel can outrun a good-sized man. So when I land from the tree and twist my ankle, I'm all 'No biggie. I could hobble and still beat these two dimwits in a marathon'. Unfortunately for me, these two dimwits have guns, and apparently know how to use them. I'll have to disarm them in order to get away.

My awkward falling angle causes me to somersault towards the two, and I use my momentum to pounce on Reno. He lands on his back, wildly pointing his gun. A bullet ricochets off a nearby tree, causing it to spit bark bits. I grab his hand and bend it backwards-careful not to break anything-until he drops the weapon. Reno and I both lunge for the gun, but my awesome mutant freak powers give me the upper hand, and therefore the weapon. As my hand closes around the barrel of the gun, I twist around to kick Reno off of me.

A large foot lands on my stomach, and my air evacuates my lungs. Ricky drops to his knees, keeping his full weight on my stomach, and wrestles the gun out of my hand while I gasp. It is not long before Reno, with the imprint of the bottom of my boot across his forehead, has the it pointed at me. Ricky, encouraged by this turn in events, shifts forward so his face so it is inches from mine.

"Look here, Blondie. We can do this the easy way or the hard way." Despite the waft of rancid tobacco breath, I roll my eyes.

"Your comic book villain is showing again." With that, I raise my leg and knee Ricky where the sun don't shine. He emits a high-pitched wheeze and rolls into the fetal position. I easily slide out from under him. A roundhouse kick to Reno's face, and he drops like a rock.

I pick up the two guns, not sure what to do with them. My thumb brushes over a button on one of them, and the bottom drops out of the handle thingy. I pick the bullets out of the tall grass-a task impossible for a non-mutant in the darkness-and dump them in my pockets. After I toss the two parts of the gun into the far-off undergrowth, I turn to leave, weapon in tow. A familiar chuckle from behind stops me. Spinning around, I find myself pointing the gun at the person I least expect to be there.

"Nick?" I lower my weapon, not sure whether he is a threat. My mistake. While a smirk spreads across his face, a hand-probably Ricky's-wraps around my bad ankle and yanks me down. I gasp as it goes from a "walk it off" kind of injury to more of a "have Iggy pop it back into place" kind of injury. My grip on the gun fails, but I remain upright.

Ricky, having learned from his mistake, skips the monologue and slides a knife out of the inside pocket of his jacket. I dive for the gun, but Nick grabs it first. I quickly lunge to the side, narrowly escaping the butt to my temple.

Ricky comes after me with the knife, slashing and stabbing rather ineffectively. With each missed attack, he gets angrier and sloppier, until finally he overshoots a slash. Bingo. I grab his hand and easily knock him to the ground. Grabbing the knife, I stand to run.

I register the click too late. Suddenly, it's like all of my muscles become jello. No, like all of my muscles decide to show off at once. At any rate, they aren't doing what I tell them to. My legs refuse to hold me, and I fall to my knees in the fetal position. My wings pull into my back painfully tight. When the volts of electricity stop running through me, I want to just lie on the ground, but the smarter (and, thankfully, dominant) side of my brain commands me to get away. I shoot a foot out and successfully trip Nick. He shocks me again, for longer. This time, my body remains numb.

Ricky zipties my hands behind my back. "Cool, man, where'd ya get one of those?"

Nick tosses the gun between his two hands. "A gift from the people who supply our firepower. For their best customers." As he talks, feeling comes back to my extremities. I begin to work out a way I can knock out Ricky from this position and get the electro-transmitter-thingies off of me. Nick slides his eyes over to me. "And, from what they tell me, it still has a few minutes in it before I have to change the batteries." To prove his point, he lightly taps the trigger, and my muscles go rigid temporarily.

"Awesome. Can I try?" Ricky holds out his hand expectantly. Nick gives him The Look. The Look is a face I've only seen Fang make once, and it was when a very young Angel asked him to play dress up. Because Baby Angel had grown immune to Fang's Glares, Stares, and Other Facial Expressions throughout her life, The Look didn't faze her. She won (luckily for me, because it made for a very interesting Christmas morning when Fang opened his present and found the photos.) Luckily for Ricky, his human eyesight, paired with the surrounding darkness, protects him from The Look and all possible side effects.

When Nick realizes Ricky can't see his face, he puts it in words.

"Heck no."

"Why not? She deserves it!"

"We may need it later." My temporary relief is squashed when Nick kneels down in front of me. "In fact, we may need her later." He leans a little too close for comfort, but I refuse to lean back. I stare him dead in the eye, and then realize he can't tell where I'm looking. Pesky humans. Nick doesn't turn around as he asks, "Cody, you got a light?"

Cody, formerly known to me as Ricky, pats his pockets apologetically. "No, man. I sold my last one-"

"A flashlight." I can almost hear Fang's-er, Nick's-eyes rolling.

"Oh, yeah. Here." A circle of light illuminates the forest floor and promptly lands on my face. For a second, Nick is a silhouette, and I can almost pretend like my family isn't missing and I'm just waking up from another nightmare and Fang is leaning over me with a sun halo and has this look like 'I-can't-believe-you-just-fell-out-of-another-tree'. The illusion shatters when Nick raises an eyebrow.

"Hey, you're the girl from the mall. The one who knits?" He says the last bit like he believes it almost as much as he would believe that I have wings. Ha. I raise an eyebrow and open my mouth to reply.

"Dude, this is the chick you were worried about? I mean, from what Tess told me, I was like 'No way!' I mean, knitting? Pharmecudical salesman?" Nick shifts his weight so the light hits me better, seemingly ignoring Cody. "But, geesh! Spot on, man. There's no way she isn't a spy."

Nick finds the two charges from the Tazer in my shoulder. Because of his close range, they went in deeper than they were supposed to. I reply through grit teeth as he digs them out. "I'm not a spy."

Cody huffs. "You were sitting in a tree when Reno and I found you. What else could you have been doing?" It takes lots of self-control not to pull one of those epic-sci-fi 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you' lines.

Suddenly, Nick's brow furrows. He turns to face Cody. "Where's Reno?" Cody swivels the flashlight beam until it rests on an unconscious lump. Nick shuffle-crawls to the body and flips it over. The jostling wakes Reno up. Even from here, I can see Nick's shoulders relax a little.

He fishes Reno's flashlight out of his pocket and turns it on. A low whistle. "Whew. The girl sure did a number on ya. Cody, come look at the size of this knot on his head." Cody hesitates. "It's okay. She's not going anywhere with that ankle." Cody and I glance down at my foot, bruised and swollen, and I grimace. That's going to be painful to run on.

Cody scurries to get a closer look, and the light from his flashlight wildly flies. For a fraction of a second, it reflects off something a few feet to my left. My eyes widen. I glance at the boys, but they are preoccupied with an animatedly-swearing Reno. I silently sweep my feet around and pull Cody's knife closer to me with the heels of my boots. He must have dropped it during the scuffle. In a few seconds, I close my bound hands around the handle.

It is times like these that I'm thankful for Jeb's training. I remember the first couple of times I tried to escape. Half of an hour of pathetic sawing left my hands in ribbons and still bound behind me. Though my fine motor skills have improved since I was nine, I opt for the more suitable option (which, to my dismay, Iggy had gotten after only a few minutes). Maneuvering was a lot easier when I was short and more flexible, but soon, my hands are in front of me.

I pause to listen for any indicator that Nick and friends realize I'm moving. They are too engrossed in their conversation with a newly conscience Reno to notice. The knife makes quick work of my bonds, and I silently rise to my feet. Or, at least, try to. My ankle protests any weight. A tentative step backwards shoots sparks up my leg.

I bite my tongue, glance at the boys one last time, and sprint away.


	6. Dangerous Decision

I keep expecting to hear footsteps behind me, or gunshots, or at least a loud string of expletives. But nothing aside from the the sounds of night life of your typical forest meets my ears. I run, and the running turns into limping, and the limping turns into full-out hobbling. Finally, when my screaming ankle making me gasp for breath, I rest against a tree. After a few minutes of huffing, it's pretty clear that I'm not going to be running marathons any time soon. Actually, physical activity in general sounds pretty terrible. I opt for awkwardly shimmying down the tree, keeping the weight off my bad ankle.

The grass is already damp with dew. Startled, I glance upwards. No stars, but the moon is already descending in the sky. Early morning, then.

My ankle gives a particularly nasty pulse. I hiss, gingerly rolling down my sock to examine it. The bruising gets worse the more skin I expose. I wince, prodding the most swollen part of my ankle. It looks like somebody surgically implanted a tangerine under my skin. I could try to pop it back in place, but the odds are better I'll break something than fix it. Rolling the sock back up is agony.

I'm exhausted beyond all get-out, but I honestly dread falling asleep. Who knows what will happen in my screwed-up brain this time? And where on dear planet Earth is the Flock? It's been twenty-four hours, long enough to fly, drive, or, heck, _swim_ out of state. The pessimistic scenarios I've been suppressing all day begin to run on spin cycle in my head.

Despite my greatest efforts, I get trapped by my thoughts. I don't even realize I'm asleep until it's too late.

_"Faster!" Nudge squeals. I glance to the rear view mirror. Snow falls like some sort of ice volcano recently erupted, but the lack of heat in the car isn't what makes my blood cold. The headlights are steadily creeping closer to us. My foot slams down on the gas pedal. There's a heart-stopping lurch before the car accelerates._

_I take a risk to check the dashboard again, and grit my teeth at what it's showing me._ _We're almost put of fuel, but telling the Flock as much is out of the question._

_"Max!" I jerk the wheel to the side in just enough time to avoid a large pothole. The car rolls on two wheels for about a hundred yards before slamming back into place, jostling everyone inside the vehicle. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding._

_Iggy leans forward from his seat behind me to yell next to my ear. "Max, you suck!"_

_I roll my eyes._ _"Think you could do better?" I swerve to the right at a bend in the road. The snow starts falling faster, thicker. Fang switches the windshield wipers up for me, and they frantically attempt to clear the snow._

_"Actually-"_

_"I'm rolling my eyes, Ig. And put your seat belt on!" Iggy lets out a huff and returns to his seat. Fang and I exchange looks. He knows it's only a matter of time before the Flock's getaway vehicle sputters to a stop._

_"They're getting closer!"_

_"I know!" The pedal hits the floor, and the sound the car makes is something between a moan and a scream. I lean forward in my seat, like it will somehow make it easier to see out the windshield. When my breath fogs up the glass, I reach up the wipe it away with my palm._

_Suddenly, the steering wheel jerks to the right. My cold hands scrabble to gain purchase on the leather. The tires skid on ice, and the car violently swerves off the road. I lose all control._

_The left tires catch in a ditch, and the car begins rolling downhill._

_Up, down._

_Screaming behind me._

_Up, down._

_Metal crunching._

_My stomach drops when the car somersaults off a cliff._

_The windshield cracks when we hit the half-frozen body of water. We sink upside-down. Ice-cold water filters through the cracks in the windows, the missing sealer in the doors. Bullet holes. It kisses my hands, hanging over my head. It's so cold it burns. Frantically, I release my seat belt, expecting to fall into the roof of the car. Instead, I hang by my legs, both of them pinned beneath the crushed dashboard. With my adrenaline, I don't even feel it._

_The screaming has stopped. I try to twist around to see behind me, but my legs don't allow much movement._

" _Report!" No reply. I grab the mangled review mirror with numb hands and look behind me. My family hangs from their seat belts like puppets in storage. Unconscious._

_The windshield starts to bow inwards with the water pressure._

_The car jars as we hit the bottom of the—lake? Ocean? I don't even know. To my relief, the movement causes Fang's eyes to crack open. His gaze travels from my legs—or what's visible of them—to my face. The water steadily rises. Iggy's hair floats._

" _Get them out!" Fang's face hardens. A nod._

_He unlatches his seat belt just as the windshield implodes._

I wake up gasping for air like I've never breathed before. My shuddering knees draw up under my chin. As my breathing peters out into long, deep, shuddering breaths, I wipe the tears off my face with the heel of my hands.

I rest my forehead on my knees and manage a small smile. At least I didn't fall out of a tree again.

Mother Nature: 127

Maximum Ride: 1

I shakily rise to my feet. My ankle still throbs, but not enough to keep me from putting weight on it. I take a few tentative steps. I can still walk, at least. For now.

My head whips around. There's shouting in the distance. I pause, unsure of its direction...

Yep, it sounds like Dumb, Dull, and Dimwit are after me. I relax. They'll need more than a knife and a taser to bring a birdkid down from a couple hundred feet in the air. Resisting the urge to stick out my tongue, and invigorated by my half-hour of sleep, I unfurl my wings. Yeah, a good flight would—

_BANG!_ My breathing hitches. I pause with my wings spread out half way.

_BANG! poppoppop!_ My eyes widen a fraction, and before I know it, I'm running back towards the idiots.

I wouldn't risk it with the Flock. No way, we would shimmy our tail feathers right on out of there. Sketchy business does not bode well for _us_. But right now, it's just _me_ , and I can totally deal with sketchy. I mean, I deal with Igs and Gazzy, don't I?

As I get closer, the shouts get louder. Flashlight beams, more powerful than the kind you buy at a dollar store, wave back and forth across the clearing. I hear a shot, followed by a curse, and one of the beams falls to forest-floor level, casting strange shadows on the tree trunks. As the holder picks it up, the light falls on figures that vary in size, shape, and gender, but wear identical sneers. And hold identical weapons. A mess of motion: knives glinting, lights swinging, guns popping. Dozens of people falling, fighting, ramming into one another.

As I get closer, I realize that almost half of the people ate lunch with me earlier ("ate" being a loose term here. I'm pretty sure I consumed most of their food after they left.) Reno and Ricky—er, Cody—are among a smaller cluster off to my left, trying to wrestle a gun out of the hand of a beefy guy with bad facial hair.

My eyes scan the fight for a familiar head of black hair. Nothing.

Then it hits me. I want to smack myself in the face. Jeesh, I know I'm tired and all, but really? I've seen plenty of the signs, but I guess my subconscious has refused to put two and two together. The oddly clingy group of friends, the way they treated each other, that weird conversation between Reno and Nick at the mall. The only thing that could make it more obvious is if they all wear snap-backs and shuffle like penguins because their pants sag past their knees.

The _rival_ _gangs_ hack at each other like wild animals. Hissing, grunting. I lunge behind a bush before somebody catches sight of me in order to assess the situation. Look at it from all of the angles. Work through numerous scenarios, plan for anything, expect the unexpected.

Nah, who am I kidding?

I sprint right into the middle of it.


	7. Brutal Battle

I realize a little too late that running into a turf war might not be the wisest decision. I guess I half expected everyone to stop and gape at this unfamiliar newcomer. But the darkness makes it nearly impossible to distinguish person from tree, let alone Shark from Jet or Montague from Capulet. I find myself caught in the mayhem.

To my left, a nasty kick to the gut sends a kid sprawling in my direction. I catch him before his head hits the ground, but he shrugs off my hands and lunges at the guy who kicked him. Hearing shuffling behind me getting closer, I spin around in time to avoid a sloppy uppercut. The girl tries to punch again, but I sidestep her advance and push her away from me.

"Sorry. Just passing through. Hey, do you know where—"I throw a heavy dude off my back, nimbly catching his knife before he hits the ground. When I turn around, the girl is gone. "I'm not here to fight." I close the switchblade and tuck it in my pocket with the bullets. The guy scrabbles backwards until he hits a tree. I lean in so he can hear me over the sporadic gunfire. "Do you know where I can find—"

He spits in my face. Disgusted, I wipe the thick brown saliva off. Great, I'll probably contract the bird flu or something. While I'm distracted, the guy tries to sucker punch me. I grab his arm and twist it behind his back, effectively pinning him against the tree.

"I'll say it again. I'm not here to fight." The guy writhes, and I tighten my grip just enough to leave bruises. Maybe I should feel worse about it than I do, but at least I'm not spitting in his face. "Listen." He wriggles some more and tries to kick me. I roll my eyes, and for a bizarre moment, I wonder if this is how the Erasers feel. When the guy tries to kick again, he rams his knee into the tree. He hisses in pain. Okay, pretty sure that's _not_ something an intelligent birdkid would do.

"Seriously, dude, I could pop your shoulder out of its socket from here, but I'm not going to, because you seem to be doing a fine job of it yourself. The sooner you tell me where Nick is, the sooner you can stop beating yourself up." To my relief, the guy stops struggling. At least I don't feel like a serial killer anymore.

He smiles, revealing yellow, rotting teeth. Is that what my teeth would look like if I didn't have genetically enhanced DNA? Focus. The guy's eyes keep darting to something behind me. Taking the accidental hint, I duck. Bullets bury themselves in the tree bark centimeters from the guy's face. One nicks his ear. His eyes roll back in his head, and his unconscious form lands heavily on top of me. Ugh. I roll the acrid-smelling body off me and bounce back to my feet.

A man emerges from the outskirts of the fighting, holding what looks like a cannon attached to a backpack. He points the cannon to the sky, and a tall column of flames leaps almost twenty feet into the air. It is powerful enough to illuminate the entire clearing. Everyone pauses their fighting, attention grabbed by the spectacle. The man smiles.

"Sorry I'm late. It's time to end this. Tell us where the drugs are, or else." Nobody moves. A dark-haired, lithe woman with a belt made of bullets—I thought they only did that in the movies—steps forward.

"Or else what?" Flamethrower dude smiles.

"I'll burn this place to the ground." He blasts more fire into the air to emphasize his point. A few smoldering leaves float to the ground.

The lady scoffs. "So what? We don't need this forest."

"Actually, I think you do." The man steps closer to the woman until either of them could reach out and touch the other. "I think there's a warehouse out here hiding everything. The weapons, the drugs. And you can either tell us where it is or let it all burn."

The woman places a hand on the man's shoulder carefully. In the silence, her whisper almost echoes. "In your dreams." The man's face pinches together in anger, and he swings the barrel of the flamethrower to the retreating woman. It knocks her to the ground. The man aims the flamethrower at her chest. She stares back defiantly.

"You'll be the first to burn." He pulls the trigger back. Almost.

The idiot I've been looking for hurdles himself at the man. Nick's momentum knocks them both over, and they temporarily disappear behind an especially luscious tuft of grass. The woman stands up on shaking legs. Without warning, flames hurdle through the air, landing in the lower branches of a nearby tree. The fire spreads like a viral internet video of a sneezing kitten, and people scatter accordingly, including the woman. Everyone but me is gone. I stay rooted in place, torn on whether or not to help Nick.

The man rises from the undergrowth, wiping at his face. He jerkily kicks something a few times, hard, before the flames closing in force him to jog away. I hide behind a tree while he passes, but I note the blood running from his nose. Good. He deserved it.

When Nick doesn't follow close behind, I am concerned, to say the least. I spin around the tree. Thick smoke obscures my view. Nick staggers away from the fire, swaying like a drunk and coughing like a coal miner. He only makes it a few feet before falling to his knees. I ignore my instincts and sprint into the boiling heat. Kneeling at his side, I can tell he's halfway unconscious.

I grab his upper arm and hoist him to his feet. "Come on, kiddo. Got to get you out of here before you get crispy." Jeesh, he's a lot heavier than Fang. I rest his arm over my shoulders, supporting the majority of his weight. My ankle protests loudly, and I grit my teeth in pain.

Nick mutters something under his breath. "What was that?" I half-drag him out of the flaming clearing. Nick coughs a few more times to clear his throat.

"Not. . .kid." I smile despite myself. It drops from my face, though, as I see the extent of his damage. There's a large burn on his forearm, probably from the barrel of the flamethrower hitting it. His face is covered in countless bruises and small cuts. An eye is beginning to swell shut. Most disconcerting, though, is a large bleeding knot behind his ear. Head wounds bleed a lot, I know, but the swelling makes me frown. He probably has a concussion.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize that we're moving too slowly. We may have escaped the flames, but the smoke keeps getting heavier. My own breathing becomes ragged, partially from the dirty air and partially from my stupid ankle _insisting_ that I stop walking on it. I finally set Nick on a large, conveniently-shaped boulder to catch my breath. My eyes sting, my throat burns, my head throbs, and coughing produces black ick. The heat can't be far behind.

I take a second to weigh my options. Nick and I could hobble away together. The flames would consume us. I could get away easily enough if I leave Nick behind to die. Obviously, that option is out of the question. My only option left has the potential to be more dangerous than the first two and will probably have pretty dire consequences later down the road.

It's also my best bet.

Nick has settled into unconsciousness. I slap his chest. His eyes crack open, but he has trouble focusing them on me. Maybe this isn't the best idea. I have no choice.

"Nick." He makes eye contact, and my expression seems to convey my urgency. He watches my mouth with concentration while I speak. "Nick, this is important. You can't freak out." My voice is hoarse.

"Okay," he mumbles. From the corner of my eye, I catch the first hints of flames.

"No, not 'okay'. You can't freak out, or move around a lot, no matter what. Got it?" I shake him a little. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." Either it's a pathetic attempt at sarcasm or he's serious, but it means he's following me. I push my arms under his knees and behind his shoulders and pick him up, bridal style. He's heavy; not enough for me to drop him, but enough that I'll be sore tomorrow. I stand, feet apart, facing the approaching fire. The heat almost burns my face. My wings spread hesitantly.

For old time's sake, I say, "Up and away."


	8. First Flight

Luckily, the trees are spaced just far enough apart that I can unfurl my wings completely. With Nick unconscious again and bleeding all over my windbreaker, I take a small running leap to get the momentum needed to lift the extra weight. With the first downward thrust, my toes skim the grass. With the second, I'm a good foot in the air. Instincts kick in, and I fly towards the fire. The heat radiating from the blaze is intense on my wings, but it creates and updraft that helps push me high up into the sky. I break free of the thick smoke in a couple of minutes.

When the immediate danger is gone, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Below me, fire trucks have barricaded the nearby streets, their flashing lights reflecting off pavement damp with morning dew. The moon has vanished from the sky, and smoke and clouds hide any stars there may be. On the horizon, I can make out the first glimmer of morning. My wings flap at a steady rhythm, but I can already feel the first signs of fatigue settling in.

I yawn and shift Nick's weight in my arms to let the blood flow back to my fingers. He moans. I roll my eyes. What a wimp. My fancy mutant sight spots a nice, comfy rock ledge on the outskirts of town, away from the fire and prying eyes. Safe. I shift my direction and begin a gradual descent.

Nick's eyes open sluggishly. He moans again and grabs his head with bloodied hands. "I think. . . sick." Thankfully, he is has enough sense to hurl away from me. He watches it fall, seemingly fascinated. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Nick's puke is probably caused by the smoke, but it reminds me of the week I spent washing and rewashing sheets after three birdboys had dared each other to eat the green leftovers in the back of the fridge. The smell still makes me gag a little.

A jolt go through Nick's body. His eyes get wide, and he looks at me, at my wings, and then at the ground. He kicks his legs cautiously. He reaches beneath himself and waves his hands around, as if testing for strings. Finding none, his upper body goes rigid in my arms.

Oh, boy. "Nick, don't freak out." All of his movement has loosened my grip around him.

"Not freakin'. Jus' terrified." I dig my fingers into his shirt in an attempt to stop him from rolling right out of my arms. In the process of moving one of his arms, Nick elbows me in the face. I glare at him in annoyance.

"Sorry," he slurs.

"Yeah, you will be if I drop you." He suddenly starts heaving. At first I prepare for more puke, but he instead starts coughing. Lightly, at first, then he goes at it. His torso bends in half, and his entire body shakes with each wracking attempt to rid soot from his lungs. My fingers are pried loose from his shirt, and I scrabble to grab him.

"Nick!"

Too late. With a final heave, he slips from my grasp. I reach down, but my fingers barely brush his reaching fingers, and then he's plummeting through the air. I dive after him, tucking my wings in for more speed.

I catch up with Nick just before he hits the tree line. My arms hook under his and my wings shoot out from my back. They wrench with the sudden resistance. Ouch. I only manage to slow down to non-fatal speeds before Nick and I skid on the rock face. My feet hit the ground with a loud pop, and the relief flooding through my ankle almost distracts me from the all-too-familiar feeling of a grinding emergency landing. Almost.

The cloud of dust settles.

I squeeze my eyes shut to fight the pounding in my head. A groan escapes my lips, and I sit up slowly to avoid, well, moving. My windbreaker is ripped open in several places, revealing deep scrapes that ooze blood. The usual, then. I pick gravel out of my forearms while I experiment with moving my ankle. It's still swollen and stinging, but it rotates without a hitch. Yep, I should be good by tomorrow.

A moan catches my attention. Nick lies a couple feet away, face down. I scoot closer and roll him over to examine his injuries. Scrapes, bruises. He looks about the same as me, but it will take longer for him to heal. The knot on his head is surrounded by crusted blood, but it has stopped bleeding. He's unconscious.

I yawn. Some sleep would be nice, but I know the cost of sleeping unprotected. I crawl deeper into the shadows and pull out my knife to take the first watch. Make that the only watch; it's not like Nick is going to wake up and help. The rock is cool behind my back. It should help me get through the rest of this long night.

I make it an hour before my eyes drift shut.

"Hey. Wake up." A rough hand with bloody knuckles lands on my shoulder. I whip around, snatching the knife and rising to a crouch, ready to pounce. Nick's battered face twists into confusion. He holds his hands up defensively under my glare. Oh, right.

It takes effort to release my white-knuckle grip on the weapon in my hand. I'm trembling. My heart beats fast, even for a mutant. The salt from sweat stings my cuts. I lower my knife hesitantly.

Nick sits back on his heels. "You were screaming," he says slowly, in a hoarse voice. I nod, wiping away the dirt and soot that has stuck to the sweat on my face. Another nightmare. I don't even want to think about it. Or that I fell asleep on watch. Again.

Nick coughs like a life-long smoker. (Which, for all I know, he is.) My throat burns, but I figure it will only take a sip of water to remedy this lingering symptom of smoke inhalation. It would help my parched mouth, too.

The sun is only just starting to peak over the horizon. I scan the surrounding area again in the light. It's hardly more than a mile to the outskirts of town. Even in his current condition, Nick should have no trouble getting home, or at least some help.

Nick works his mouth, obviously trying and failing to find something to say. Frankly, I don't intend to hear any of it. "Town is thataway." I point through the forest. "If you start walking now, you can probably get there in time for breakfast at any fast food joint." He stares at me incredulously.

"Or, if you want to go back to the forest fire, just follow the smoke." I gesture to the lazily rising smog in the distance. Nick's gaze starts to make me uncomfortable.

"Alrighty, then. You can stay here. Either way, _adieu_." I mock salute him and spin on my heel to trek away from town.

"Wait." My process is impeded by a hand grabbing my arm. I instinctively yank my arm from his grasp and turn to face him.

"'Adieu' is French. It means 'goodbye.''" I stalk away from him. He takes a couple unsure steps towards me and swerves to the right before hitting a tree.

I pause, realizing my mistake. Of course he has a concussion. Mutants get over head injuries pretty easily, but humans can't even ride a bike without a helmet. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.

A headache. It's all a headache.

I help Nick to his feet. "Where do you live?"

I just know I'll regret this later.


	9. Jolly Journey

For a while, we stagger through the forest in silence. After an hour, a few breaks, and a chance encounter with a bear cub, it's a different story. Nick slowly comes out of his daze, and his confusion from earlier disappears with it. Unfortunately, he has questions.

"What is your name?" He speaks a little too loudly. Without missing a beat, I open my mouth to tell him the same thing I said earlier, at the food court in the mall. He cuts me off. "Your _real_ name." I consider the question carefully. Eh, what could it hurt? It's not like he could call the police on me or anything.

"Max. Just Max." A half-truth. He laughs. It sounds different from his 'I'm an evil mastermind' laugh. It sounds just like Fang's. "What? Something wrong with my name?"

"No! No. It fits a heck of a lot better than Marley." I can't help but crack a smile.

He pauses while I help him climb over a fallen tree. His next question is one word.

"Wings?" Dang. I was hoping he'd write that off as weird hallucinations, despite how I keep catching him staring at my back like it's going to start shooting lasers or something.

"I have them." That's all he needs to know. I know what he's really asking: how? why? when? who else? But telling him would be a whole new bucket of worms. He nods, disappointed but understanding. We walk further without saying much. Little by little, he puts less weight on me, needs less support. The forest thins out as we get closer to civilization.

"Why are you helping me?" This question is a doozy. I've been asking myself the same thing since I dropped into this mess. I have a reputation for doing stupid stuff like this.

"I don't know," I reply, trying to keep my tone light. It sounds more like I'm trying to talk while someone's strangling me.

"What? I have this ringing in my ears—"

I clear my throat. "It's just—it's the right thing to do, I guess." Uh-huh. Even I don't believe my answer.

Nick frowns. "I tried to kill you. Well, I didn't try to kill you, but Reno and Cody did. And then we kidnapped you."

"It hardly counts as a kidnapping when I get away." I can tell he knows I'm avoiding answering the question, but he doesn't push me to answer. Good. I guess it makes sense; he would know what it's like to keep secrets. Even if they're a bit of a different nature than mine.

There's a lull in conversation as we emerge from the forest. In front of us, miles of sprawling suburbs: white picket fences, yapping dogs, pristine lawns, the works. Further in the distance, a few buildings as high as five stories create a nice skyline against the clear blue sky. I spot the roof of the mall from yesterday. While we observe, an ice cream truck rolls through the streets a mere block from our position. Nick, almost able to stand on his own now, stiffens. As though on cue, we both duck behind a bush to watch. Neighborhood kids flock to the truck like Angel to stuffed animals. They walk away with sticky hands and smiling faces. After the kids have received their frozen treats, a pair of adults approaches the truck. I can't make out what they walk away with, but it's safe to say it is shady business. The ice cream truck rolls away, chirping its merry tune.

Nick stands (with about as much grace as a zebra in roller skates), smacking the dirt off his hands and the knees of his jeans."Probably drugs." He frowns. "We're not safe here. This is Red Creek territory." He surveys the land before lightly pulling me in another direction.

I plant my feet. "You can handle yourself from here. I can't go any further."

"But where are you going? What will you do?"

"Wherever and whatever I want." To find the Flock.

Nick studies me, deep in thought. "Take me with you."

I laugh. "No. Nope. Not going to happen." Nick opens his mouth to continue. "And there's nothing you can do or say to convince me otherwise." He presses his lips together and clenches his jaw.

"Fine," he says. "But at least let me help you." I protest. "No, you don't have any food or water."

"I know where to get it. I'm nobody's charity case."

He sniffs. "And, no offense, but you could use a shower."

"Well, excuse me for not bathing regularly while on the r—"

"On the run?" I practically see his ears perk up. "So, who're ya running from?" Crap.

"Uh. . ."

"The cops? Drug cartel? Parents?"

"Bloodthirsty, shape-shifting, attractive beings with fangs. They are strong, deadly, and usually hunt at night."

Nick gives me a look. "You're running from vampires?"

I manage to keep a straight face. "Yes."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I know a safe place."

"Nope. Not coming with you."

"Could I bribe you with food? Freshly-delivered pizza?"

"How desperate do you think I am? Besides, a delivery isn't safe."

"Weapons?"

I pat the knife in my pocket. "All set."

"You sure? I've got silver. . . and garlic."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows the only way to kill a vampire is with a sharpened wooden stake through the heart."

"Seriously, though. Come to my place. Take a shower, take a nap. I think some of my mom's clothes might fit you. Take them, too. Then I'll give you supplies, and you can fly dramatically off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

I don't even bother refusing. An eye roll is the only response _that_ absurdity warrants.

Nick smiles, that same smile he used in the mall. He grabs my hand. "It's settled, then. You'll be gone by nightfall."

I follow, half because of the prospect of food and sleep and half from my own curiosity. Because I refuse to learn from my mistakes.

As we shuffle along the outskirts of the city, the neighborhoods get darker. Grittier. The half-mansions devolve into alleys and storefronts with bars bracing the windows. Nick and I pull away from the forest and walk along a worn sidewalk. People lean out the windows of tired apartments, tapping cigarette ashes into otherwise empty flower boxes.

"What's with Fang?" The question catches me off guard, and I almost trip over some uneven sidewalk concrete. I try to feign innocence.

"Uh. What?"

"Fang. You keep calling me Fang." I keep my mouth shut tight. My name, that's one thing. The wings, that's another thing. But revealing my mission? My family? Out of the question.

Nick doesn't pick up on my _No way, José_ vibes. "Is it some kind of weird pet name? Because I know I'm attractive—my hair stylist tells me so—but we just met, babe." I dip into my shallow puddle of patience.

"Just leave it alone. I'm not telling you."

"Ooh, hit a nerve, did I?"

I narrow my eyes. "If you know what's good for you, you won't ask me any more questions."

"What are you going to do—"

"Besides kick your butt to next week? Nothing. But, trust me, that's not a hornets' nest you want to poke." Jeesh, I liked him better when he was only half-conscious. Something catches my eye in a shop window we pass.

I take a one-eighty. It confirms the sinking feeling in my gut.

Nick keeps walking and talking, oblivious to my discomfort. Walking faster, I grab his arm as I pass him, towing him behind me.

"Nick, don't look now—" He immediately turns around to look behind him. "But we're being followed," I finish. "And now they know that we know we're being followed. Nice job, genius." I push him into an alley. "Hide. I'll take care of this."

"But—"

"Shut up. Your concussion will get worse if you're not careful. I've got this." A rusty red van pulls to a stop, and a beefy man with a handlebar mustache leans out the window of the driver's seat.

"Honey, I think you're in the wrong part of the neighborhood." A buffoon jumps from the back of the van. He's pretty. Too pretty, but his smile is all sleaze.

"Yeah. Why don't you come with us?"

Erasers. I figured they would eventually show up.

I slowly shift my weight into the balls of my feet. "No, thanks. I can take care of myself." When the driver of the truck gets out, clearly trying to intimidate me with his size, I continue. "Care for a demonstration?" The man in the passenger seat laughs and joins his friends. Together, the three of them back me into the alley, probably thinking it's in their favor. No witnesses in the alley, though they could have easily saved themselves the trouble. Curtains drawn, doors slammed shut, the town blinds itself to the atrocities it predicts.

My feet carefully shuffle backwards. All I would need to do now is trip over an empty glass bottle. I keep my eyes trained on my pursuers, planning my attack. It doesn't appear any of them are armed. At least, not in a way they could easily pull out weapons. Either the Erasers don't realize I'm alone, or they are very aware of it. Shoulder to shoulder, they fill the mouth of the alley, leaving me surrounded by high bricks walls set too close together for me to extend my wings.

I stop moving backwards. The Erasers take a few steps closer before halting their progress. Ugly smiles, all around. At least they haven't made any bad bird puns.

I decide to make the first move. Pushing off the dirty ground, I rush the guy on my left. He raises his arm to block my punch.

_Crack!_

I pause, confused. When did the School start making Erasers out of matchsticks? The thug cradles his right hand against his chest. In my confused state, the driver (the big one) pushes me. I stumble backwards before my back slams into something marginally solid. It tips over, and I land in a heap on top of it.

"Oof!"

I bounce back to my feet, unfazed by my unscheduled appointment with the asphalt. Only after Nick struggles to his feet do I realize that he's what I ran into. His jaw set, he coolly walks up to my attackers.

"No-" I grab his arm, trying to pull him behind me. Human versus Eraser? Yeah, right. He shrugs my hand off, and only stops walking when he's within kicking distance. The Erasers leer. I frantically scan the ground for a weapon to use while Nick fails at negotiating.

He crosses his arms (in a way that makes me think he's practiced the look in front of a mirror often), before asking, "What are you doing here?" There! A large, rusty pipe leans against one of the walls. I silently start to move in its direction.

"Nicky! Nice ta see ya. We'd all figured you'd fried in the fire." My hand closes around the pipe. It's heavier than I expected it to be, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I move back to Nick's side.

It hits me. "Wait, you know these guys?" I whisper.

"Unfortunately," he says, not caring who hears. Well, that explains the fragility of the thug's bones. I loosen my grip on the pipe and allow myself to relax a little. Nick addresses the thugs. "I didn't realize the rules changed since last night."

They shrug. "Nobody's seen the boss since last night—"

"What?" Nick visibly pales.

"Not since that little stunt you pulled. And, Nick, the warehouse—"

Another thug interrupts. "Burned to the ground. I was there when it happened. Barely got out before the whole thing collapsed." He uses his hands to illustrate the event. The thug with the broken arm eyes the pipe in my hands warily. I meet his eyes and smirk.

He suddenly points accusingly at me. "That chick was there last night! I saw her! She was fighting for the Reds!"

Thug numero uno glances at me before addressing Nick. "Your momma wouldn't be too happy to hear about that, would she?"

Nick steps in front of me protectively. I let him, but more for the thugs' protection than my own. "First of all, Maxie here—" I glare at the back of his head for using my real name. He continues, oblivious. "Max is a double agent. I planted her myself. Second of all, you can go ahead and tell my _mother_ , because she doesn't give a crap about me and what I do. Third," he pauses for emphasis. "Third, nobody likes a snitch."

The tension in the silence that follows could strangle a cat.

The third thug, the driver, finally steps backwards. "Listen, man, we was just on our way out of town, anyhow. Right, boys?" The other two don't move.

" _Right_ , boys?" They nod stiffly, obviously not liking their situation.

"Nick, we could give you and your girl a ride to your place, if you want," says the third thug.

"I'm not his girlfriend. And, thanks, but-"

"Sounds great," Nick says, shaking hands with the driver.


	10. Somber Statement

Nick and I have to ride on the floor in the back of the van because the seats had been removed. We both rest with our backs to the side of the van. I grip a loose seat belt in my hand, in hopes it would catch me in case of an accident, which, with the driver's crazy zig-zagging, is almost likely.

"Hey, Nicky. When's the last time you heard this song?" The driver leans into the radio to turn the music up. My ears are assaulted by slang and curses that would make even Iggy blush. The man sitting across from me—the one who's hand I probably broke—bobs his head and even mouths some of the more disdainful phrases while avoiding making eye contact with me.

Nick has to shout over the bass shaking the vehicle. "I couldn't tell you, there's a lady present." I raise an eyebrow. The man in the passenger's seat guffaws.

So the next ten minutes pass. I sit in silence for the majority of the ride. Okay, all of it. I figure I've blabbed enough about myself today; listening to the conversations of the men surrounding me may actually prove beneficial (if it doesn't lower my IQ). They talk about money. Alcohol. Fights they've been in. In the matter of a few minutes, I learn more about gang life than I'd ever care to know.

So I zone out and focus on my other concern. I mistook the thugs for Erasers. They're attractive enough, proud enough, and, from what I can tell, think the same way. They travel in packs. Take orders from this mysterious "boss," who they never call by name. I assume it's the woman I saw nearly get toasted last night. Anyways, I study the three men to a point where it's almost creepy. If they aren't Erasers. . .

If they _are_ Erasers, I'm in trouble.

It makes sense. Nick could be a clone; the School probably stores samples of the Flock's DNA in little test tubes meticulously boxed away for future testing. Maybe this whole thing has just been a setup. Luring me into the van means no hassle, no "damaging the merchandise." As the thought dawns on me, I have the sudden urge to escape the tin can that's currently flying down the streets at too-fast miles per hour.

Then I notice the plastic bag innocently lying in the corner, as though tossed haphazardly. But I know better. The second I show any intention to escape, the one with the broken hand will grab the contents of the bag-probably a syringe and some restraints- and dose me with enough tranquilizers to take down a hippopotamus. Then the Erasers and the Fang clone will ship me to the nearest School, where I can be processed, tested, and killed accordingly (maybe not in that order).

But then I remember this morning. If Nick was with the Erasers, he could have easily dosed me while I dozed. (See what I did there?) Besides, I've already ruled him out as a clone. He didn't even know about the wings. No need to go worrying down that road again.

So, maybe Nick is just an innocent bystander in all of this! What if he's being lured into this trap with me? There's only one bag, hardly large enough for the equipment needed to bring down me, much less another human. But the Erasers wouldn't be allowed to leave any witnesses.

Woah. Wait.

I'm assuming these common thugs are Erasers.

I _broke_ that guy's _arm_ because he didn't properly defend himself. There's no way I have to worry about them, despite their arrogance and disconcerting attractiveness.

Of course, they're still thugs. If I had had parents, I bet they would have warned me about getting in vans with strangers.

Nick shifts his position on the floor next to me. His arm brushes mine, and I scoot out of his reach and prepare to launch out the door the second he tries to pull anything. He doesn't notice; I follow his stare to the window opposite us. We've stopped at a light; something easily avoided if we had just walked. Across the street from us is a small shop selling electronics. The window boasts no less than four televisions, all playing the same channel. I realize that it what's on the screens that has Nick so interested.

The light turns green, and the driver slams his foot on the gas at the same time as Nick lunges for the dashboard, causing him to lose his balance. I rise to a crouch and help steady him, not wanting to have to lug him around because of another concussion. He ignores me, already busy with the radio controls. The bass suddenly disappears, leaving my innards feel hollow and numb.

"Hey, man, I was listening to-"

"SHH!" The radio gurgles through a few stations before Nick finds the one he was looking for.

". . . only been a week since the last one. Janice, with more details."

"Thanks, Don. I'm in Washington, D. C., standing in front of the pile of rubble that was Independence High School. At approximately eleven o'clock this morning, the school received a phone call that would change the lives of the students, faculty, and staff of the school forever. The school received a bomb threat, and though most of the school was evacuated before the explosion, thirty-six students remain unaccounted for. While many of the students declined being interviewed, a few stepped forward to provide further details."

"There-there was this announcement over the intercom, and we evacuated-"

The guy in the back in the van with me interrupts, "Hey! Sounds like Chuckles!" Nick's face pales, and the guy realizes his mistake. He stops talking.

"-the teachers took attendance. And there were almost forty kids missing. And then. . . we heard the explosion."

"The ground shook, and I could see bits of bricks and stuff flying up into the air."

"I remember the smoke. But I mostly remember the quiet. It was like. . . like all of the sound had been suctioned up with the school or something. Everything stopped."

"We were holding our breath, waiting for them to pop out and tell us how it was all a joke or something."

The somber voice of the newscaster is back. "It is the school's policy to notify the police after every such event, and so the authorities arrived within an hour of the bombing. Two hours later, and search teams have yet to find the thirty-six missing students."

"Thanks, Janice. Our hearts go out to the families of those missing. NWN will keep the nation updated on this story. In other news, the mother of heartthrob Caleb Mirello, the actor who plays Jackson Thompson in the new-"

The driver of the vehicle turns off the radio.

We ride the rest of the way to Nick's house in silence.

I'm so absorbed in my own thoughts that I don't even realize we've stopped until Nick heaves the door open and jumps out. He offers me a hand down, but roll my eyes and nimbly exit the vehicle. I land in grass that would reach my knees if it hadn't been beaten down by frequent use. Not what I would expect, based off Nick's personal appearance.

Of course, I didn't guess he was in a gang, either.

"Hey, Nick. Come 'ere a sec." The guy in the passenger seat gestures him closer. I scan the yard, pretending not to eavesdrop. "I'll let you know if anyone hears about the boss. Until then ...just. . .watch yourself, man. Alright?" Nick, obviously sensing the gravity in his words, nods. With that, the van speeds away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

Nick stands in the settling dust, hair tousled by some rising wind, covered in soot and his own blood. He looks lost. Then he notices me watching and drops any emotion from his face. In that instant, he looks so much like Fang my gut flutters.

From home-sickness. Nothing else.

I squelch those feelings and direct my attention at the gnawing in my stomach. "So, _Nicky_ , how about you bring my food and a backpack, and I'll get out of your high-maintenance hair?"

Nick doesn't miss a beat. "My hair is fabulous. You'll have to come inside to get food, and as an added bonus I'll show you my hair care products." He pseudo-examines the dirty rat's nest I call hair. "You could use some, too."

I roll my eyes. Honestly, it would take more than some cheap conditioner to make my locks luscious. Although a shower may help.

No. Not going inside.

"You bring it out here, or I'm leaving." Ooh, my Leader Voice came out. Nick stares at me for a second, and I fight the heat creeping to my face. Luckily, just as I'm about to lose, he turns and knocks on the door. He waits for a second. Knocks again. When nobody answers the door, he jiggles the doorknob. Locked.

A soft expletive.

A little worried about how long I've been standing out in the open, I say, "Everything okay over there?"

Nick, flustered, glances over while running his fingers around the door frame. "Yeah. Door's locked."

"This is your house, though?" Nick digs into a (dead) potted plant.

". . . Yes."

"You hesitated."

"It's the Boss' house."

"You're breaking into your Boss' house? How stupid—"

"It's. . .complicated," while he shoves at a rusty grill without making any progress. It only takes me a small nudge it slides right on over. I catch Nick's slightly surprised look out of the corner of my eye and smirk.

Nick, after another minute of searching, runs his hand through his hair with a huff. "Okay, I could have sworn the spare key was under the grill, but whatever. I'm going through the back." He jumps over the railing of the porch and jogs around the corner. When I move to follow, he stops me. "No. Stay."

I cross my arms. "Since when did you get the idea that I follow orders?"

Nick mirrors my motions. "Since when did you get so interested in seeing my bedroom?" He wriggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, and I step backwards in disgust. Ew.

So I climb back onto the porch and keep watch for curious neighbors. I realize then that the house is pretty much isolated from prying eyes, which would make it ideal for whatever the "boss" of a gang does. The only sounds are that of the window Nick is displacing on the other side of the house. A crash. Great, the idiot's broken the window. I go to peek my head around the corner.

Fatigue settles on me then, like I'm pushing through water to move. I don't pay it much attention; I mean, I'm used to being exhausted, especially after the week I've been having. When I try to step over the empty plant pot, though, my foot hits the side. Confused, I glance down. The world starts to tilt and gravity pulls a little harder at me. It takes a few tries, but my hand finds the wall of the house, and I try to hold myself upright.

I take a deep breath with my eyes shut, fighting the nausea building in my stomach. When I open my eyes again, they struggle to focus. Crap. The world takes a violent tilt, and it takes the pain in my hips and head for me to realize that I've fallen over.

The door opens a crack, revealing a pair of dirty, black, name-brand sneakers.

"Look what I f—Max!" A crinkled sheet of paper falls as the shoes approach.

With a final heave, darkness takes over.


	11. Sacred Silence

_A dripping sound brings me back to consciousness. Groggy and more than a little disoriented, I call out. My voice echoes. A few cries answer my own, but I realize with a start that none of them belong to the Flock. None of them are even human. The darkness around me takes shape. Metal bars appear first, then the world beyond them morphs into the stuff of nightmares._

_The School._

_Trying not to betray my panic to anyone who may be watching, I call out to the Flock again. No reply this time but that stupid dripping. From my vantage point, I can't see anything directly above or below me, no matter how far I lean. Finally, I hear a faint voice from just below me._

_"Max. . . It hurts." Iggy speaks between gasps for breath. The silhouette of long fingers barely reaches the floor of my cage. Terrified and not willing to show it, I grab his hand. It's slick with blood._

_"Iggy. . .what-"_

_"Flock. . .dead." My gut wrenches, and I can't help but gasp. It hurts. I suddenly know-I_ know _-where the dripping is coming from._

_"I'm. . .dead." A last, horrible breath. The hand I'm clinging to suddenly hangs loose, almost slipping between my fingers before I tighten my grip._

_I hold on until the dripping stops._

A massive shudder runs from my head to my curled-up toes, effectively waking me up. I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm my shaking and chase the last few wisps of the nightmare away.

It doesn't work. Note to self: seek therapy.

I crack my eyes open to get a better idea of where I am. There are a few penciled sketches pinned to the beige walls, but the small room otherwise looks like your typical guest room; even the laptop sitting on the desk lacks personality. Half-paranoid, I test my limbs for restraints. Nope. I check for a guard. Nada. Hm, when they went through all of that trouble to poison me, you'd think they would stick around to make sure it stuck.

It's a struggle to sit up; my muscles feel like pudding. Geesh, I don't know where that gang got those drugs, but there's no way that they're legal. Of course, neither is kidnapping a bird kid. Well, really any gang-related activities could be counted against a person on Santa's naughty list.

The front door opens and closes softly. Footsteps approach the bedroom door and stop. With nowhere to hide or run, I collapse backwards into the pillows and pretend to be asleep. I listen to the hinges of the bedroom door open a crack. For a moment, nothing but the sound of the tiny dwarf digging for gold nuggets in my head. Then the door shuts softly again and the footsteps recede. Alright, back to business.

I swing my feet over the side of the bed and fight the lava churning in my stomach. My toes are freezing. A quick glance confirms my suspicions: my feet are bare. I reach over the side of the bed and my fingers grasp at air. Drats. I like those boots; the steel toes really add some oomph to my fighting. Nick must have confiscated them. I'll just have to leave barefoot.

There's only one window in the room, but, luckily for me, it's plenty large enough for teenagers-the human and mutant kind-to climb through. It even overlooks the backyard, where a security fence would buy me a few extra seconds of headway if Nick catches sight of me.

I plant my feet firmly on the ground before attempting to stand. Even so, I have to lean heavily against the bedpost to stabilize myself. Immediately, it's like the dwarf in my head has discovered a jackhammer. Great. Just great. Flying is going to be fun; not only will I lose all of my toes to frostbite, but the pounding in my head will make me go crazy, and I might just try to say hi to some airplane passengers, and everyone knows that if you fly next to a plane you'll get sucked into the turbine. Then the engine will explode and the plane will crash land into a nuclear plant and it will cause a nuclear meltdown that kills everything on the planet. Yep. Flying will be fun.

I guess the drugs haven't worn off yet.

It takes only a few iffy steps to get to the window. A moment later, and it opens with a _whoosh!_ Feeling stronger by the second, I hoist one leg through. I'm ducking my head out the window when Nick casually strolls in.

"Oh, you're awake." He runs a hand through his hair and yawns.

"Yeah, I've got a high metabolism, so drugs wear off of me faster than they would for a human." I catch sight of Nick's watch. It's nine at night; I've been out of it all day. "But, judging by how long I've been asleep, you knew that already."

"You really think-"

"That you poisoned me? Duh. What else. . . would. . ." I drop my sentence as it sinks in. Nick didn't walk in like he was after me; he was probably just checking to see if I was awake yet. And twelve hours is plenty of time to move a person to a more secure location, let alone restrain him or her.

Shoot. Back to square one. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. That headache? Yeah, it's not going anywhere.

"You okay?" Obviously not. But, whatever.

"Yeah. Where are my shoes?" My question-deflecting skills rival those of politicians.

"They're by the front door."

I raise an eyebrow at Nick's equally-bare feet. "You didn't strike me as a neat freak."

"It's not me, it's my aunt." Okay. Whatever that has to do with anything. "Oh, and I washed your socks."

Ew.

Nick continues. "But-they were kinda worn out to begin with, and the dryer kinda-well, it ate them. So, here." He tosses a nice, thick pair of socks at me. I nod my thanks and, ignoring my grody toenails, pull them on. Ah, fresh socks: a once-a-year kind of feeling.

I notice Nick watching me anxiously. "What?"

"It's just. . .what was that? One second you're moody-"

"I am _not_ -"

"-and the next you're passed out like someone slipped roofies in your soda."

Exactly what I was thinking. Decoy! I need a distraction. "For your information, I never drink soda."

"Ever?"

Ha! He's taken the bait! "Never. It doesn't hydrate, and the bubbles hurt my mouth." Well, that and the fact that all of the soda we've found while dumpster diving is warm and flat.

Nick shakes his head. "You're changing the subject." Darn. Foiled again. "What happened back there?"

I get up and grab my boots off a mat by the front door. I take my time lacing them up. Nick waits not-so-patiently. I chew on the side of my mouth, turning recent events over in my head.

"I don't know."

Nick doesn't take that for an answer.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" His tone jacks the pounding in my head up a few notches.

Immediately I'm on the defensive. "I mean I don't know! It's not like they handed me an instruction manual when I escaped! And-" Nick sucks in a breath. I bite my tongue. Oops. I've said too much.

I'm saved from explaining when I get a tingly feeling on the back of my neck. A second later, the dilapidated porch creaks. Nick's eyes widen and he peeks out the window.

"Wallakazoo." Okay, he doesn't say that, but it's a much better word than what actually comes out of his mouth. He pushes me away. "Go! Hide!" Without much time to think it through, I lunge through the nearest door and pull it shut just as the front door opens.

It's dim. And stuffy. Something brushes one of my shoulders, and I instinctively grab it and pull. A broken hanger and the coat it was supporting rains down. A closet? Really? That's like, preschool logic! What was my second choice, under the bed? Behind some drapes?

Nick's voice easily carries down the hallway.

"Mom, you need to leave." He sounds tired, like he's had this conversation before.

"Nicholas-" His mom's voice sounds like it was pretty before she started smoking a pack and a half a day.

"It's Nick."

A feminine sigh. "Nick, I know it's been a while-"

"Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

"'Been a while' doesn't cut it. When was the last time you saw me?"

"I-"

"It was a year and a half ago." Nick's voice is deadly calm. "And do you remember why? You wanted money. From Aunt Bess. You didn't even know I was here until she brought it up."

"I can explain-"

"Don't bother. I've heard it all before. Cut the bull, Mom, you aren't going to change, and I'm tired of waiting. Just leave me alone with whatever I've been able to pull together of the _mess_ of the life that _you_ have left me with!"

A pause.

"Nicky, I missed another house payment. I just need-"

"Fine. Here. Take it." A drawer being opened and slammed shut. "But know that this is the _last_ time. If the Boss knew-"

"No." His mother's voice is firm. "She is your aunt, and you aren't going to call her anything else. You know I don't like you being one of those-those _delinquents_ in her gang!"

"They are my _family_!"

"They are _not_ your family! They aren't even your friends! They are using you!"

"They care about me! I am making money! I am important!"

"As your mother-"

" _Seriously_? You can't play the "mom card" anymore. That ship sailed when you left me at home by myself when I was seven. Seven! For two weeks! I had to dig through the _garbage_ to find food! And the Boss found me, and she has taken better care of me than You. _Ever_. _DID_!"

A slap, followed by stunned silence.

"Don't you say that." Nick's mom's voice is softer. It sounds like she's fighting a lump in her throat. I chance cracking the door open to peek through. "Don't you say that to me. I love you, Nicholas." She raises her hands to frame Nick's face, but he bats her fingers away. Her voice breaks. "I've loved you since the moment I knew I was pregnant."

Nick makes a sound in the back of his throat like disbelief. "Get out." He holds the door open for her. I notice his white-knuckle grip on the doorknob. She doesn't move.

"Get out before I have to call the Boss."

His mother hesitates before carefully stepping onto the porch. "I quit for you." It's barely more than a whisper.

A course laugh. "Too late." When she doesn't move, Nick yells, "Go! I. . .I never want to see you again!" With that, he slams the door.

My heart stutters.

I would do anything for a mom, and Nick. . . but. . . I just don't know what to think.

Nick runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. When he looks up again, his face is expressionless; a face I know too well. "Max? You there?"

I wait a second, tempted to pretend I didn't just hear all of that or care either way. Then I answer him. "In here." I nudge the closet door open with my steel-toed boots. Nick offers me a hand up; I refuse. When I stand, though, my headache takes on a new life, and I have to take a moment to massage my temples before taking my first steps. Nick and I seem to make a non-verbal agreement not to mention the mother fiasco.

My stomach decides to break the awkward silence.

Nick's abdomen answers. "Glad we're on the same page." I follow him into the kitchen.

It's nothing fancy, but an impressive amount of food is stored inside. Canned vegetables, canned ravioli, canned soup, canned fruit, canned beans; you name it, and if it comes in a can, it's in those cupboards.

I think I'm in heaven.

As I start picking through the aluminum cylinders for one that piques my interest, it occurs to me that the only other people I've known with this impressive of a collection is the Flock. "Didn't know you were preparing for the apocalypse."

"Expect the unexpected, that's my motto," Nick says, grabbing a can of ravioli from the counter.

"I thought that was Boy Scouts." I select a can of good ole' vienna sausages. Can't go wrong with canned meat!

"Oscar Wilde." He pops his ravioli open with gusto. "But Boy Scouts sounds good, too." He fishes some forks from a drawer and hands one to me, his fingers just barely brushing mine. I pretend I don't notice and focus instead on opening my can without spilling any of the precious meat brine. But before I take the first bite of delicious, salty, processed meat product, Nick stops me.

"A toast. To survival." He says it with a straight face, so I can't tell if he's serious or joking. I opt for the latter, roll my eyes, and raise my can to clank with his. Then we feast.

I'm about halfway through my fourth-or is it fifth?-can of food when Nick's phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and reads a message while I scrape the remaining ravioli sauce from a can. When he slides his phone back into his pocket, his face tells me something's up. I toss the empty can into the pile of empty cans on the counter and ask, "What is it?"

Nick shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "It was Reno." I narrow my eyes. "He was wondering if the Boss had ever made it back." His shoulders tighten.

"That's your aunt, isn't it? Your mom's sister?"

He nods once. "Nobody has seen her since the fight. And that was almost two days ago." I know exactly what that feels like. Nick looks at me, almost like he's pleading. I could tell him that his aunt will turn up and that everything will be okay, but I know how I feel when I know someone's lying to me. I remain silent. After a beat, Nick turns away from me and starts to clear the counter. When every can is in the garbage, he just stares at the marbled patters of the counter's top.

I recognize that posture.

Back at the School, I couldn't reach Fang's cage. When things went wrong-which was about all the time-he kind of disappeared into this shell of himself. He wouldn't talk or eat or even sleep, but he would stare at the floor of his cage without a single emotion crossing his features. Nothing I could do would bring him back.

I couldn't help Fang back then, but I can help Nick right now.

Hesitantly, I reach out and brush his hand. When he doesn't move, I awkwardly grasp his hand, squeezing a little. They are warm and calloused. Nick's eyes meet mine for a brief second before returning to the counter. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

Slowly, he returns the pressure. "To survival."

"To survival."

We stand together, sharing hands and air and silence and grief and what little hope we have for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few days after posting this chapter, I decided to look at it again. Ew. Sorry y'all had to read that. I promise I won't update without proofreading for unnatural amounts of gush EVER again.


	12. Beneficial Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry/notsorry about messing with the previous chapter at the beginning of this one. I posted that last chapter WAY too soon after finishing it. I usually let them sit because I almost always change my mind (this chapter, for example, has four different drafts), but on that one I was like "Yay! Update!" Ugh. Rereading it, it seems so. . . forced. Sorry y'all had to read that.

_I couldn't help Fang back then, but I can help Nick right now. Hesitantly, I reach out and grasp his hand. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything._

_He slowly returns the pressure. "To survival."_

_We stand together, sharing hands and air and silence and grief and what little hope we have for tomorrow._

Yeah, I wish. The grace and social skills required for that are not something I possess. (Homeschooled, remember?) *****

While I traipse through memory lane (not a pleasant experience), Nick continues to stand over the counter, all hunched shoulders and kicked-puppy face. I hover behind him, trying not to be awkward and failing miserably. Finally, after weighing the consequences, I say something.

"You okay?" I grimace. Alright, that sounded indifferent even by my standards. Like, the tone of voice I use when a whitecoat accidentally jabs himself with a needle. I should lighten up a little.

So the next obvious step is the Mom voice. It works on the kids most of the time. I try for soft, caring, comforting. "Are you okay?" Ah, that's better.

I wait a bit to give Nick a chance to respond. Nothing. Humph. And I thought I was stubborn. Okay, the only thing left is my Leader voice. It's not what I would normally use in this kind of situation, but I wouldn't normally be in the house of a complete stranger, either. (At least, not while they're present.)

"Report." Not a peep. I repeat myself, louder and with a deeper tone of voice. That's leaderly, right?

His shoulders start to shake. Oh heck, is he crying? Is it Angel-skinned-her-knee or Nudge's-favorite-celebrity-couple-broke-up level? Does Nick own enough ice cream and chocolate for me to fix this?

He looks up from the counter, and I brace myself for ugly-crying-face. But, no, he's laughing. "What. . ." He has to take a deep breath to compose himself. "What was that?"

I cross my arms. "What was what?" I think I liked him better when he wasn't talking.

Nick barely gets "'you okay?'" out in bad falsetto between gasps for breath. Immediately following is a strain of 'you okay' and 'reports' in various accents and tones of voice. I wrinkle my nose. Gosh, if I actually sounded like that the Flock would have clipped my wings and pushed me out a window a long time ago. I roll my eyes and mumble, "well it worked, didn't it?" But I can't help the smile creeping onto my face.

When he's caught his breath I notice the corners of his mouth pulling up a teensy tiny bit.

Our eyes meet.

He looks just like Fang.

Suddenly it feels like I've swallowed a rock. My smile falters, and Nick notices, but his phone starts buzzing before he can say anything. He hesitates before answering.

"You should get that," I say, the rock in my throat warbling my words a little. Without waiting to see if he follows my simple directions, I head down the hallway. My eyes are burning, and I have have a dim recognition that it's because extra fluids are gathering there. No. I will not cry. I have gone ten years without so much as a tear, (not counting the nightmares), and I'm not about to let Fang beat my record. I straighten my spine into a more dignified, not-about-to-cry posture and slip inside the first room I pass.

With my back to the closed door, not bothering to turn the lights on, I prepare to defend myself against an onslaught of emotion. But the moment has passed, and I breathe until the lump in my throat dissolves. I'm just stressed. That's all. I just need enough rest to plan and execute a rescue mission for the Flock. Yeah, that's only, like, one or two hours of sleep. I run a hand down the wall of the room blindly until I hit a light switch.

Or that.

Yes. That could help, too.

A couple times while on the run, the Flock would "acquire" some money and spend the night in a cheap hotel. It was nice: sleeping in a bed (or on the shag carpet), air conditioning, complimentary breakfast. But the best part had to be the shower. It was always disgusting by the time I got to it; the little bottles of soap would always be empty, the drain full of hair, and the water cold. But it felt so good to not have mud caked under my fingernails or sweat itching the back of my neck.

Stepping out of Nick's shower takes that feeling to a whole new level. It's probably the closest I'll ever get to a spa. Or therapy.

I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and wring out my hair, my heavy emotions steamed out of me. The shower, I decide, is the best place to plan. Heck, it's the best place to do _anything._ (Don't read too much into that.)

A couple swipes clear up the foggy mirror over the sink. For the first time in a few months, I take a really good look at myself.

Geesh. I thought that was a tan. And my hair! Has it really been that long since I cut it? I wonder if Nick would mind letting me borrow some scissors? I pull my hair back with one hand to examine my face more closely and pause.

No, that's not possible.

I raise my arms out in front of me. They are covered in crusty red lines. Scabs, left over from the crash landing a few days ago. But they should be healed by now. They should have been healed yesterday.

It's nothing to freak out about. Just a few scratches. But I can't help the unsettled feeling in my stomach as I change into my clothes. Dang, and I was thisclose to being relaxed.

I leave the bathroom, a towel still encasing my hair the way Nudge taught me. ("It dries faster," she said. But I'm pretty sure she just hopes my hair doesn't return to its natural state). Nick is in the living room, watching television and having a very animated conversation with Reno over the phone.

He snaps his flip-phone shut and breaths audibly. (It's not a sigh. Only love-sick teenagers sigh. This is manly, more like a "huh" than an "ah".) I perch on the arm of the couch and cross my arms. "What's up?"

Nick flops onto the floor and leans back onto the couch. "Nothing."

"Uh huh. And that means?"

"Nothing."

I throw my hands up. "Okay, if you don't want to tell me what's going on, that's fine by me. Not like I saved your sorry little butt from imminent doom or anything."

"It's. . . complicated."

I pointedly ruffle my wings. "Try me."

A huff from Nick. "So the Boss is missing. It's been long enough now that the second-in-command, Eric, is supposed to take over. . ."

"And nobody can find Eric, either?" Maybe I was eavesdropping a tiny bit.

Nick doesn't notice my vast knowledge of his social circle. "Yeah. Last night was the last anyone saw him. Two days, two leaders."

"So who's in charge?"

Nick mumbles. "Me."

I had been picking at the fabric on the arm of the couch, but at this I swivel to gape at Nick. "What? You're, like, fourteen!"

"Fifteen. And you can't be that much older than me." I mentally correct him. I'm older than him, sure, but there's no way I'm fifteen yet. I've only had, like, three birthdays since escaping. Anyways, Nick continues. "I'm a blood relative of the Boss, so I was bumped up in the rankings of the gang. It's automatic." Nick shrugs.

There's a pause. I return my attention to the stained arm of the couch. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Declare war on the Red Creeks, obviously." I tense up. Nick laughs. "Relax. I'm kidding. I'm planning a meeting to choose the next in line." I only partially relax my shoulders. Good luck falling asleep tonight, Max!

"So when's the meeting going to be?"

"As soon as possible. Hopefully to-" Nick's phone buzzes. He answers, nodding a few times during his mostly one-sided conversation. When it's over, he clicks his phone shut and checks his watch. "Looks like I have to be on the other side of town in twenty minutes. You okay here?"

I nod. Food? Shower? Cushioned furniture to sleep on? "I'll be fine."

Nick heads for the door. "Okay, I'll be back soon. Lock the door behind me. Don't eat all of the food." Shucks. Nick makes direct eye contact with me before he shuts the door. "And whatever you do, don't leave."

"Okay, mom." Nick shuts the door, and I watch discreetly through the window as Nick boards the same van from earlier and rides away into the darkness.

Ah, too bad I'll never see him again.

I slide from my perch on the couch. There's a backpack in Nick's room that looks like it'll be the perfect fit between my wings. I kind of feel bad for taking it, but he knows it's for a good cause. In the kitchen, I sort through the cupboards until I find enough non-canned food for a few days. (Cans are too heavy for flying.) It all goes in the backpack. Lastly, I check my pockets for the knife I had picked up earlier. The metal is warm from my body heat.

I'm ready to roll. Er, fly. Whatever.

I decided while in the shower to take the back door. There's enough vegetation to keep curious gazes from seeing the back yard, perfect for taking off. I don't really know where I'm headed, but better to be on the move than a sitting duck. The Erasers haven't found me yet, but they are bound to be on my trail. I just hope they don't give Nick too much trouble for helping me.

My hand closes around the doorknob. I'm coming, guys.

_CRASH!_

I duck just in time. A very solid bundle skims my cheek as it flies by my head. The rock lands in the middle of the kitchen in a pile of broken glass. Immediately, I drop to a crouch and duck behind the counter. There's a patch of light coming through the mangled window. I pull my feet in until only the toes of my boots are barely visible in it. Thus seated, I wait.

There's a crunch on the back porch. A step on a dead leaf. So whoever it is, they're coming this way. I carefully scoot to a more defensive position, watching the patch of light from the broken window.

Slowly, the silhouette of a head rises. It turns left. Then right. Whoever it is, they're looking for something. Or someone. My heart beats in my ears, my breaths come out as quietly as I can make them. I can't get caught now. I haven't even started looking yet.

Every one of my muscles is tensed for what feels like eternity. The silhouette of the head finally recedes, but I wait ten more minutes before moving from my hiding place. When the coast seems clear, I carefully crawl over to the rock on the floor. Numbly I register the sting of glass cutting into my knees and the palms of my hands, but I'm too petrified by what I see to care.

On the small rock is a message, written hastily in black marker.

_RUN_

_-Bess_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I don't believe that all home-schooled children aren't adept socially. In fact, the home-schoolers I've met are some of the coolest, most driven, and most artistic people I've met.


	13. Shifty Shelter

For the umpteenth time I slide my palm across my face. Warm, sticky blood already coats my fingers. Ugh. I twist my hand into my shirt to wipe some of it off. Stupid head wounds, bleeding so much. Stupid rock, scratching my face. I try not to dwell on the fact that my-ahem-"abilities" should have healed this dumb scrape up by now. Or at least scabbed it over. Just to where it doesn't look like I lost a fight with a bottle of ketchup.

I wouldn't be headed back into town via mutation if it weren't for the rock that caused my current discomfort. Call me crazy, but I have a feeling Nick would like to know that Bess, presumably his aunt and leader of the gang, who fell off the face of the planet for a few days, magically reappeared and threw a rock at my head bearing a cryptic message. I don't know, maybe it's just me. And the message seems urgent enough that I don't want to risk Nick running into, well, whatever he's supposed to be running from. So I'm just flying in circles a thousand feet above the city, cursing my sense of duty. Stupid whitecoats, giving me wings and experimenting on me for the majority of my life so that I have to feel pity for everyone I meet that grew up normally and so can't defend themselves.

Besides, it shouldn't be that hard to find Nick. He caught a ride in that terrifying death trap of a van. I'll just keeping my eyes peeled for a vehicle that looks like it has been lifted from a junkyard. Easy, peasy.

Below me, in the darkness of night, the ramshackle buildings look almost peaceful. The streetlamps illuminate only potholes in the roads; no sane person would wander the pock-marked sidewalks at this hour. After a mere six miuntes of searching, a plume of black smoke catches my eye. I zoom in, raptor-vision style, and see that it's coming from the tailpipe of the Van of Doom. The contents of my backpack shift as I angle my wings down towards it. The car speeds through the last stop sign in town and turns down an unmarked road into the forest.

Great. Because my experiences in there have been just peachy.

Once I pass the city limits, I dive until I'm only a few hundred feet above the trees. Only glimpses of the van's rusted exterior are visible through the leaves. Regardless, I make sure to stay out of sight as it travels towards its destination. All I need is for somebody in the van to recognize that I'm more than a bird, distract the driver, and send the van into a tree. Then I might have to pull off some crazy rescue mission or something, and I'm not in the mood.

The road goes past a clearing that, judging by the smell, is what's left after the forest fire last night. I suddenly know where the van is headed. And I'm not sure I like it.

A few minutes after passing the newly-created clearing, the van slows down and veers onto a dirt path. I follow them to a small clearing that looks like a box of fireworks was recently lit in the center of it, decimating the plant life and what was once a large warehouse. My gut wrenches with the realization that I was correct in my earlier assumption of our destination. The van parks in a line of cars varying in degree of decay. I fly past and land in a tree a few hundred feet past the perimeter of the clearing, where I rely on the darkness to mask me from the humans. The light cast from the moon is enough for me to see.

I stare at the remnants of the warehouse burned down by the forest fire the other night. Supposedly, this is where the gang stored their "goodies," but the Red Creeks repossessed most of the weapons and drugs before torching the place. According to Nick's friends, the place was burned to the ground. In fact, there's a large pile of rock, brick, and other vital parts of the building's infrastructure in the center of the clearing that looks close to it, standing only a couple inches or so above the dirt. My dread grows as the riders of the vehicle search through the rubble before swinging open a large door and disappearing down a ladder. A bunker, then. Huh.

I'm not an underground person. I'm not really even an on-the-ground person. When you're underground you're completely surrounded. No way out but the way you came, if even that. This wouldn't bother me, but the Red Creeks obviously knew about the location of the warehouse before; who's to say that they aren't keeping it under surveillance now? And I don't know exactly how the gang system works, but I'm pretty sure that being the leader of a gang, no matter how temporarily, puts a big target on your forehead.

Call me paranoid, but maybe that's what Nick's aunt was trying to warn him about. I pull the straps of the backpack tighter, just in case.

When I count five minutes after the last van arrives and there isn't another headlight in sight, I shimmy down from my tree to get a better scope of the area. Nothing in my immediate vicinity looks dangerous enough to attack, so I start to work my way around the perimeter, keeping my eyes open for movement and anything vaguely-human shaped.

I don't expect to find a car.

I almost miss it; brush and strategically-placed branches cover the thing. I do a three-sixty, and when I'm sure nobody is watching, I pull some of the decoration off. And whistle. The car is sleek: tinted windows, low to the ground, new paint job, the works. Nothing like any of the cars that parked by the warehouse. Something catches my eye. A flashing red light in the passenger seat. The light of a communications device. It crackles with static. Oh, snap. I've found a live one.

I backpedal away from the car and pray that nobody has spotted me. After a moment, the tremendous implication of my findings hits me. I sharpen my focus and scan the area again. More snazzy vehicles are scattered, at different depths in the forest, all covered in the most authentic forest-scented air fresheners available. So there are more. Of course there are, why would somebody play with a Walky-Talky by themselves?

With a jolt, I realize that whoever had done this had to have come early to hide the vehicles. I cautiously approach the car and place a hand on its hood, over the engine. It's cold. So they've been here a while.

If nobody is in the cars. . .

Adrenaline starts to slowly worm its way into my system. I need to warn Nick.

A soft, sharp sound makes me jump. I chance a peek over the top of the fancy shmancy car. There, almost invisible under the brush and darkness, the outline of a person. From what I can tell, she hasn't seen me yet. Let's keep it that way. I duck back out of view and silently make my way to the bunker.

The faint static of communications device drifts from the direction of the spy. It's followed by the tell-tale click of a gun loading.

Well, shoot fire and spit nickel. Can't it just be easy for once?

I duck behind a tree just in time. I don't hear the gun fire-it must be muffled-but a rapid-fire stream of bullets bury themselves in the bark of surrounding trees. When it stops, it's replaced by the sound of a gun being reloaded. Taking my chances, I sprint for the remains of the warehouse. A soft curse from behind me, and then more radio static. I have to warn Nick.

When I get to the debris, I have to pick my way over glass and boulders and the occasional sharp-edge metal sheet. The bunker door swings up before I can get to it. The sound of a major scuffle rises from below ground. Crap. I'm too late. The man who had opened the door looks confused at the sight of me, but that bewilderment quickly shifts to a smirk.

I make a famous Maximum Ride split-second decision. So I pull an about-face and aim for the perimeter of the clearing. Only, the debris beneath me isn't as keen to switch direction as I am. Physics, right? So I lean to the right in preparation for turning around, and the debris under my foot rolls to the left. Gravity does the rest.

For the record, I fall all of the time, so I know how to fall with finesse. I manage to twist so that I take the brunt of the fall in non-vital areas of my body (read: everywhere but my head and wings). But falling on the ground and falling on a lumpy pile of hard rocks is very different. For example, the open end of an uprooted pipe tries to impale my rib cage. I hiss as I roll over.

Gah, that will leave an interesting bruise.

The man from the bunker has gotten both feet above ground level. He holds me at gunpoint while he approaches. I guess he doesn't realize how flexible I am. I wait until he's pointing the gun straight down to hoist my weight into my shoulders and kick the weapon out of his hand. He's too shocked to move while I use my momentum to flip to my feet. My ribs throb-I swear I heard a crack-but there's enough adrenaline in my system to keep the pain from slowing me down.

A few pops from behind me let me know that the girl keeping watch from the perimeter has finished reloading and ditched her silencer. Not that the sound matters anymore; in the reflection of some soot-stained glass another face emerges from the bunker. They've called in reinforcements. And that the reinforcements are coming from below means I am not going to pull the grand rescue mission I was hoping I would.

I mean, I could go storming into the bunker by myself, wings unfurled and knife glinting in the moonlight like an angel of fury. But that may get me killed, and frankly, I don't want to die underground. (Cue shudder).

I aim for the perimeter of the clearing; if I can get back into the forest, they won't be able to follow me with their night vision (or lack thereof). But the girl from earlier has emerged from the trees and stands between me and freedom. I zigzag wildly to avoid getting shot and tackle the girl when she's out of ammunition. My momentum sends her flying backwards, me still attached. She lands hard. I try to roll out of the fall like a ninja, but my stupid ribs decide at that moment to remind me that they are damaged. My somersault stutters to a halt before I can get to my feet. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.

Before I can regain my balance, a foot lands square in the center of my back, sending me back to the dirt. I flip around to face the chick before she tries anything. Except it's not the girl, it's the guy from the bunker.

Oh, he looks angry. He looks bigger when he's angry. My hand finds the knife in my pocket, but I don't get it out. Not yet. Not unless I have to. The guy aims a stomp to my abdomen and I roll out of the way. While his balance is off center (that's what happens when you stomp), I sweep his feet out from under him and he topples like a Jenga tower after Iggy's first turn. Luckily, he trips the chick on his way down.

And that's my cue to leave.

I make it to my feet and halfway across the clearing before something solid hits the back of my head. It almost sends me back into the dirt, but I've fallen enough tonight. I turn around, ready to face another assailant. There's just a brick on the ground. Well. I guess they ran out of bullets. Finally. I was beginning to wonder if they figured out a way to create them from the shattered dreams of small children or something.

The people chasing me have only just gotten themselves untangled and on their feet. I give them all a cheeky wave before high-tailing it into the forest. Not one of them follows.


	14. Subterranean Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence ahead.

Nick had a massive headache and a dark feeling boiling in the pit of his stomach. He watched through slit eyes as the rest of his team was kicked into line on the floor next to him at gunpoint. His rage grew.

Good thing he was handcuffed, or there was no saying what would happen to the Reds.

Once the seven members of the Shades were gathered and restrained, the nine—no, ten—Red Creek members huddled up and murmured to one another. Other than the hissing of the air vents and the whispering, it was silent. Nick held still a moment to make sure that nobody was watching and carefully maneuvered his lock-picking set from his back pocket. He just needed one hand free from the handcuffs.

Easier said than done. Charlie, the man who had driven Nick into the woods, noticed what Nick was trying to do and leaned in to help hide his fumbling hands. They didn't make eye contact. Secrecy was key.

The conversation stopped. One of the Red Creek members stepped forward, brandishing a knife and a smirk. Nick glared at him, along with the rest of the gang. Unhindered, the Red walked back and forth in front of the line of Shades, studying each face. When the man got to Knox, sitting at the far end of the row, he knelt down to get a closer look. Nick's handcuffs lightly clicked as one of the metal bracelets released its death-grip on his wrist. He slid the kit over to Charlie. The sound was covered up by a loud slap.

Nick rose up on his knees. He let out all of his pent-up anger and used it to fuel his courage. He spat, "What is it you want, you bas-"

"Ah, ah, ah. Language, young man." The man used the hunting knife to gesture to Knox, who had a handprint-shaped red blotch on his cheek. "He stole my car for a joy ride once." The man rose to his feet and made his way back down to Nick. He pointed the hunting knife at Nick's face. Nick didn't flinch or break eye contact. A tense pause.

The man withdrew his blade with a flourish and shoved Nick down with his foot. "Let's try again. I should introduce myself." He gestured to his lackeys. "These are the Red Creeks, and I'm currently in charge. The name's Axel, but you can call me 'Master' or 'Sir' or 'Commander'.'" Nick fought not to roll his eyes. And lost.

Axel noticed.

Nick ducked, narrowly avoiding a rather unfortunate alteration of his face. The knife sliced a chunk out of the wall behind him, sprinkling drywall over his shoulders and into his hair.

Axel leaned in and harshly spoke into Nick's ear. "Listen, punk-"

"Leave the kid alone!" Nick sucked in a breath. Without looking, Axel snapped his fingers, and one of the lackeys approached someone far enough down the line that Nick couldn't see. But he could hear. A heavy thump, and whoever it was shut up real fast.

Axel stepped back far enough that he could see everyone. "Where is the leader of this shindig?"

Silence.

Axel growled. "Don't make me ask again. Who is your leader?"

Nick cleared his throat. A few of his fellow gang members looked his way out of the corner of their eyes. He ignored their warning. "That would be me." And, cue the smirk.

Axel eyed him coolly. Somebody about halfway down the line stage-whispered, "Shut up, Nick. Tell him the truth."

Axel glanced away for a split second before taking a few steps closer. "Yes, _Nicky_. Tell the truth."

Nick considered his answer. His teammates were creating a way out for him. But he'd have to peg someone else as the punching bag. Sure, he was the member of a gang, but the gang was his family. He wasn't about to let anything bad happen to them if he could help it.

He leaned back against the wall with a shrug and a smirk. "I did." A nudge from Charlie. Another warning. But Nick was never one to heed a warning. He hardened his eyes. "I'm the leader."

Axel studied him. Nick suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling that Axel knew more than he was letting on. Despite his feigned nonchalance, a small kernel of fear took root in his stomach. After a minute of strained silence, Axel snapped his fingers and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. Two well-dressed lackeys hoisted Nick to his feet by his upper arms and led him towards the opposite corner.

When Nick felt their grip loosen enough, he drove his heel into a foot and his shoulder into a face. The hand cuffs dangling from his wrist sliced down the lackey's cheek as he fell. One down. The second lackey tightened his grip and lunged for Nick's other arm, but he misjudged his balance. All it took was for Nick to spin, and the lackey ran into the wall and crumpled. Nick smoothly pulled the lackey's gun from his belt and pointed it at Axel.

Axel did not look as perturbed as Nick had hoped he would. In fact, Axel smiled. It was a sick grin. Nick's confidence faltered.

Like someone had blown a whistle, five more lackeys charged at Nick. He dropped the gun as one of them tackled him. He held off at first, but all it took was one well-aimed crack across his jaw to stop him. Nick's head snapped to the side, and the shock ran all the way down his spine. While Nick's eyes struggled to refocus around the black dots floating in his vision, his handcuffs were locked around a pipe running parallel to the wall on the ceiling. Only the balls of his feet touched the floor.

Axel's smile grew as the lackeys retreated. He took his time approaching Nick, seemingly relishing the death glares he was getting from the six people restrained by the opposite wall. Nick's eyesight was clearing, and he watched with growing trepidation as Axel spun his knife in his fingers.

"Fun story," Axel said, addressing the whole group but not moving his eyes from Nick. "We found this hidey-hole yesterday while we were collecting what valuables were left from your warehouse. I made the executive decision to stick around and see if anyone would show up." The knife stopped spinning. Axel pointed the blade at Nick, the tip hovering just in front of his left eye's cornea. Nick held his breath. Another centimeter and he would lose an eye. Axel continued. "And look what we've caught."

"What do you want?" Nick couldn't peel his eyes off the blade to see who said it.

Axel waited a moment before lowering the knife to Nick's shoulder and slicing a shallow cut. Nick bit his tongue to keep from making a noise. Axel finally spun around to face the rest of the room. Nick lowered his head and released his breath in relief.

"First, information. Then revenge."

Nick's eyes snapped open just in time to see Axel's fist swinging towards him. He tried to duck, but his handcuffs pulled taught. The fist buried itself in Nick's abdomen, pushing all of the air out of his lungs. He gasped, but with his arms raised and only the balls of his feet keeping him steady, it was difficult for him to catch his breath.

Axel walked around behind Nick, out of his vision. Nick tried to turn and see him, but the handcuffs prevented him from spinning. An arm snaked its way around his neck. Nick struggled, and the arm squeezed threateningly. The knife pressed into his side, drawing a small bead of blood.

Axel's voice was loud by proximity to Nick's ears. "Who is your real leader?" He was addressing the rest of the Shades.

Despite his greatest instincts, Nick answered. "Are you deaf? I am."

Axel tightened his hold around Nick's neck, partially cutting off his airways. "Shut up."

Nick coughed and then rasped, "Why do you care, anyways?"

"I said shut up!"

"What is it that you-" The knife fell to the floor and Axel's grubby hand was covering Nick's mouth and nose. He couldn't breathe. One of the lackeys pulled his gun polishing cloth, stained with grease, from his back pocket. Another pulled out duct tape. They waited in front of Nick as he tried to pull away from the hand keeping him from drawing breath. Axel pulled him backwards to him, so that he was lifted to just the tips of his toes and couldn't even struggle effectively. The pressure was overwhelming. It felt like his limbs were burning. When black spots began to blur his vision, Axel released him.

Nick gasped for breath, swinging limply by his wrists. Then the foul flavor of grease coated his tongue, and duct tape wrapped across his jaw to keep the cloth in place. Nick breathed harshly through his nose, his mouth effectively gagged. He noticed the knife was no longer on the floor.

Axel sneered. "We should test it." A white-hot pain shot up from Nick's thigh. He cried out and kicked blindly. Only a muffled hum made it through the gag.

"Let him go!"

Axel spun back to the wall. "I wasn't born yesterday. What idiots would make a twelve-year-old the leader of a gang?" He smirked. In a less serious situation, Nick would have rolled his eyes again. "Besides, a little birdie told me that your leader is a _she_." Axel paused. He wagged his finger, and his posture was that of a detective who had just discovered a clue.

Nick watched cautiously as Axel stepped back towards him. "And word has it that there is somebody in the gang who she would do _anything_ for." When his hand reached for his face, Nick flinched. Axel grabbed his chin and studied his face. "Like her own child." Nick's eyes widened. Axel brushed his bangs back with an arrogant grin.

"Isn't that right, Nicky?"

**~xXx~**

The house—if you could call it a "house"—looks as though it has survived the apocalypse. Or at least is preparing for one. One story, probably ten feet long and twelve feet wide. The windows are all boarded up, presumably with what was the porch's flooring. Not a light peeks through the small slots between the boards or under the door. It looks empty, so I assume she wants me to think it's empty. I mean, it's not like she ran off into the woods or anything.

She has to be in the house.

I take a deep breath and steel myself to approach the hideaway. She's probably been living here for days now; there's no telling what kind of booby traps she could have set. But as I step over the porch's boundaries, no trapdoor swallows me, not even a single arrow whizzes by. I close my hand around the doorknob, hoping my brief stint of luck will hold out, and twist.

The door swings open with a soft creak. The inside of the house is too dark for a human to see, but my enhanced vision means it's easy for me to pick out the empty cans of food on the lone table and the suitcase in the corner. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. This place gives me the heeby-jeebies. I move towards the suitcase to take a closer look.

"Take another step and I'll shoot." I almost jump. Almost. There's a thump behind me, and when I start to turn to look, she continues, "Don't move." The cold barrel of a gun presses into my lower back.

I start to search the small house for escape routes while I run my mouth. "You know, I'm usually the one who hides in the rafters." There's movement behind me, and I turn my head to peek. The safety on the gun clicks off. I get the point and face the wall again.

After a minute, a hand grabs my arm and leads me to the only chair in the small structure. It forces me into the seat. I try not to struggle; that will give her the wrong impression. But it's really hard to fight my instincts when she ties my hands to the arms of the chair. Like, I-wrap-my-ankles-around-the-legs-of-the-chair-to-keep-from-kicking-her-to-next-week hard. It's for Nick, gosh dang it. But I wouldn't trust me, either, if the first thing I did after following me to my safe house was to attack me.

Her work done, Nick's aunt walks around to in front of me and flicks a flashlight into my face. "You've been following me."

"Well—" I squint into the light, trying to make out her features.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is—"

And there's the gun again. "Who. Are. You."

I close my eyes against the harsh light, wrestling with bad flashbacks from my days on the operating table. She's obviously not going to let me get by with "anonymous tip," but it's not like she'll believe the truth, either. "I'm—uh. . ." My eyes, adjusted to the light, are able to make out her facial features. She and Nick share hair product, apparently. And lips. Not that I notice Nick's lips or anything. Or Fang's. Nope.

Then I'm struck with an idea. "Don't ask me my name, but I'm a. . . a neutral in this whole gang war thing."

She kind of hisses. "How did you find me?"

"Listen. Nick is in danger—"She lunges toward me, arm outstretched for a blow, but I instinctively raise my feet and kick her away from me. The action sends my chair toppling backwards. My head hits the floor in the same place that dumb brick hit me earlier. Stupid physics. "Sorry about that. I don't want to hurt you. But you need to listen. Nick—"

She pulls my chair back up onto four legs. "How do you know about Nick?"

He invited me to lunch. By the way, I spent the night at your place. You threw a rock at my head. Remember? "I have sources. But that's why you need to know—"

She rushes at me again, the gun forgotten on the table, and I stand (which is kind of awkward) and swing the chair around so that the legs hit her abdomen. She lands not-too-gracefully on her back on the floor. The chair breaks to pieces, only the arms attached to my wrists. I pull the wood planks off and offer her a hand up. She refuses and throws one of the larger pieces of the chair at me.

Gah, this is what I get for trying to be nice.

I don't stop her from getting back to her feet. I don't even stop her when she runs towards me. But this time, she doesn't have her gun. So once she grabs one of my hands, I grab one of hers.

"I've played this game before. I never lose. Just listen to me before I hurt you—" She tries to sweep out my feet, but I hop over and back her into a wall. For what she lacks in height, she makes up for in power. It's a struggle, but eventually I have both of her wrists pinned to the wall.

"I will let you go as soon as you promise to help me help Nick." She doesn't say anything. "He's in the underground bunker by the warehouse—"

"How do you—"

"And I was just over there keeping watch because of a meeting called because _you_ decided to stop existing. They were ambushed, all of them. The Red Creeks know about the bunker." I realize she's trying to weasel her hands out of my grasp. I don't stop her, but raise my voice in desperation. "Do you hear me? Bess, they've got Nick."

At that, she finally seems be listening to what I'm saying. I loosen my grip a little, and she slides her wrists from my hands. I step back while she regards me, sizing up my words. I wait.

She speaks calmly. "It's a trap."

I nod. "Definitely." I give her a moment to continue, but when she doesn't, I do. "But Nick is family—"

"Nick is as good as dead." Her voice cracks.

My mouth drops open, astounded. "You're not going to just leave him—"

"I don't have a choice!"

"Yes! Yes you do!"

The phone rings. Both of us look in the direction of the sound, the blueish haze through her suitcase. She doesn't move.

"Are you going to get that?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Could be tracked."

Finally, I snap. I grab for the phone, hit "answer", and thrust it into her hands before she can give it back to me. I can hear the breath on the other end of the line, waiting for someone to say something. Hesitantly, she answers.

"Who is this?"

A gasp on the other end, like whoever it was was hoping Bess wouldn't answer. "H—hey, boss." Bess' shoulders tense. There's muttering on the other end of the line. I guess nobody thought she was still alive.

"Knox?"

"I'm sorry! They made me do it! Just don't-" His voice fades as the phone is passed around on the other end. Bess and I make eye contact over the glow of the phone. She turns away. She doesn't realize that I can hear both ends of the conversation.

A more confident, aggressive voice speaks over the phone now. "I want to cut a deal."

Bess laughs shallowly. "What do I have that you could want?"

"Information, darling. And you."

"And what makes you think-"

There's an awful sound over the phone, followed by a grunt. Bess stands rigid.

"You've got a nice looking boy, here. It would be a shame if something were to happen to him."

Bess' eyes harden. "I don't have any children."

Laughter on the other side. "You hear that, Nicky? She's denying your existence! How does that make you feel?" There's harsh breathing for a few seconds. Then a muted cry. I can make out the protesting of the other gang members in the background. All of the blood drains from Bess' face.

"Stop. Let him go."

"Only if you come to the bunker. Alone." Bess clenches and unclenches her fist, silent.

"But I would hurry, because the kid's bleeding quite a lot. And all of this thrashing around is going to make him choke himself on the rope around his neck. Wouldn't it be awful if something _really_ bad were to happen to him?"

A final scream, hardly seeming like a gag could be deadening the sound.

Then the line goes dead.

Bess drops the phone and sits at the table, staring at her clasped hands.

"As good as dead," she repeats.


	15. Marcy's Mission

Laughter, boisterous and arrogant, wrenched Nick from unpleasant unconsciousness. He whipped his head up to find the source of the sound and immediately regretted it. The world tilted, and he leaned, and the rope around his neck tightened just a little bit. He coughed into his gag; all that could be heard was a faint "huff."

The guard took no notice. He yawned and leaned against the door to the bunker's sole meeting room, where the rest of the Reds had disappeared less than half an hour ago. The conversation in that room had started hushed, but by now had reached school-cafeteria levels. An occasional, staccato burst of laughter made it through the mumbling from the door.

Nick blinked, trying to keep blood from running into his eyes. He didn't dare lift his head again. Better for his eyes to sting than for him to suffocate. He tried to take slow, even breaths through his nose, but the deeper he breathed, the more his ribs ached. They weren't broken, but bruised. Badly. And it was hard to breath evenly with his rope necklace.

Another bout of laughter. Nick attempted to focus, pushing past the pain radiating from everywhere but his numb hands.

The guard lost all interest in his charges. He cracked the door open and made a sexist, violent remark, spurring the laughter into a higher volume. But a softer sound caught Nick's ear. Careful as to not catch the guard's attention or slip back into unconsciousness, Nick raised his head a fraction of a centimeter. It was Knox, at the opposite end of the row as where Nick had been sitting before being dubbed the punching bag. Knox made eye contact with him and shifted his leg to reveal Nick's lock-picking kit.

Nick's heart fluttered. So, each member of the Shades had managed to free himself. Now it was all about playing the waiting game. They needed a good opportunity to strike, and with the element of surprise, they just might have a chance at getting away alive.

The door to the meeting room swung open so hard it ricocheted off the wall behind it. The resounding _clang_ made Nick jump. (In his defense, his nerves were shot.) Axel strode in at the head of a lively, arrogant mass with a smile on his face that could curdle milk. Nick aimed a death glare at the man but subconsciously shrank away.

Axel glanced in Nick's direction. "Oh, good. You're awake." He checked his watch. His tone sounded more like it belonged to a child waiting for Santa Clause than to a life-or-death hostage situation when he said, "Seven minutes, Nicky."

Nick shuddered.

A radio crackled to life. _Bones, there's a sit—_ and the line died.

The Red holding the radio—"Bones", apparently—tried a few times to get the other guy back, but nothing but static got through. Bones cursed.

Axel turned on him. "Is there a problem?" He didn't seem too happy.

Bones rolled his eyes. "Nah. He's probably just drunk again. I'll go wake him up."

As he climbed the steps out of the bunker, a different Red yelled, "Don't you want your gun?"

Bones opened the bunker door and started hoisting himself out. "Unlike you, I ain't afraid of the dark." The bunker slammed shut while the rest of the Reds laughed.

Axel gazed up the steps to the bunker's door with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Any minute now your Boss is gonna walk in here. . . I can't wait to see the look on her face when she sees you!" He turned towards Nick again. Nick's heart rate picked up as Axel approached him. The man pushed back his bangs and examined the two black eyes developing. With a thumb he wiped at a cut on his forehead still weeping blood. Nick winced.

Axel clucked his tongue, fingering the thick rope around Nick's neck. "Five minutes, and I'll pull this thing so tight you can't breathe." He illustrated his point by tugging a little. Nick wheezed, tugging on his restraints. "I'd tell you about how it will feel, the tightness in your chest, the burning in your limbs, but you already know, don't you?" Axel brushed the bruises already forming around Nick's neck from last time he had pulled the rope, only to loosen it the moment Nick had passed out.

Axel laughed as he watched Nick tremble. "You scared, kid?" He pulled out his knife and wiped some of the blood off with Nick's shirt. When it was sufficiently clean, he prodded a particularly deep gash on Nick's thigh with the tip. Nick squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. His trembling grew to full on shaking. Axel grinned.

"Two minutes."

**~xXx~**

_Crack!_ I wince and grab the foot settled on my chest. A quick wrench to the side and a soft popping, and the guard raises his foot. Then, off balance more because of the alcohol than my fighting skills, he spills onto the ground. I spring to my feet, ready to take him on.

A low growl rumbles from his direction, but he doesn't move. Cautiously, I roll him over with my foot. A bit of drool runs down his face as he snores again. Well, it makes my job easier. I fish his handcuffs out of his pocket and snap them around his wrists. Then, agonizingly slowly, I lift his torso.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest. I drop the guy's arms and run a hand over my ribs. My fingers hit a notch, sending another wave of pain through my rib cage. Yep; seems like this guy finished what his friend started earlier. But broken ribs are the least of my worries right now. If somebody comes out of that bunker and sees the unconscious dude lying in the middle of the clearing, they _might_ get suspicious. I steel myself, lift his torso again, (and maybe whimper a little), and begin the torturous journey of dragging him back to the trees to hide with his other friends.

"Hey!" I drop the guy and spin around. A new menace, fresh from the grave. Er, the bunker. Sticking out of his pocket is a walkie talkie remarkably similar to the one I lifted from the first guy I took down. I pull it out of my pocket and speak into it.

"The name's Marcy. I'm here for Nick. Now will _you_ take me downstairs like a civil human being or would you rather join your friend here?"

**~xXx~**

I'm all too aware of the tightness in my chest as the guy swings the bunker door shut. Immediately the low murmur of quiet conversations rises from the floor below. The guy grips my arm almost too tightly and half-shoves me down the steps. I breathe deeply, trying to push through my claustrophobia, but it only makes the aching worse.

Okay. This plan is stupid. But what was I supposed to do? Forget that Nick existed and visit his shallow grave in the forest years later with the Flock to honor his memory with flowers and a poem recited by heart?

When we reach the bottom of the steps, I'm confronted with a sea of people, some speaking and some not, but all generally facing away from me. I don't bother trying to see what they're all staring at; instead I search for escape routes. There's a door cracked open across the room, but no windows or doors in the small room behind it. The only notable thing in the room is a line of men sitting on the floor against the wall with identically dismal faces. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realize the only way out is behind me.

Gah, I hate being underground.

The guy holding me clenches his fist and says, "Come on, _princess_." I shudder at the way he says it. Creep. He pushes me backwards through the crowd and I just barely keep from sprawling on the floor. Four dozen eyes watch me.

I'm suddenly very aware of the amount of dried blood covering me. As I'm not the kind of girl to make formal introductions, I start off with a witty remark. "What are you staring at? Never seen a girl without her makeup before? Give me a break, it's two in the morning."

A slimy voice that I recognize from the phone answers from behind me. "Honey, I almost thought you weren't going to show." I turn around and my heart skips a beat.

A big guy, like "burly" big, looms four inches over my head. His smile reminds me about the stories I told baby Angel about "stranger danger". But it's what's behind him that catches my breath.

I register the handcuffs first. Then the white, bloodless hands inside of them. Bloodied arms. A mop of disheveled dark hair.

His bruised eyes are closed. The blood drains from my face.

"Nick." It's barely more than an exhale, but it's enough to broadcast my intentions. Just as I lean forward to charge the guy in my way, he steps back and pulls on the end of a long rope. A sputtering coughing sound comes from Nick, and I stop dead in my tracks, following the trailing rope to its loop around his neck. But a small part of me is relieved; he's still alive. His swollen eyes open a fraction, and when he sees me they grow as wide as the personal pizzas Iggy once made for each of us. He starts to shake his head, but winces against the chafing rope and stops.

I turn to address the beefy guy, my teeth grit. "I will only tell you once. Let him go." My hand closes around the knife in my pocket.

The man's smile falls. He addresses the lackey who had brought me downstairs. "Bones, where'd you find this chick?"

Bones sheepishly makes his way to the front of the crowd. "She was up top. Said she was the boss, or something, Axel."

Axel laughs shallowly. "And you believed her? She can't be older than the kid. I bet she's his girlfriend or something."

"We're not dating." I wince. It just kind of came out, a habit developed over years of strangers mistaking Fang and me for a couple.

"In that case, baby. . ." A hand squeezes my shoulder. Without thinking, I grab it and pull forward, flipping the man over my back. He slaps to the ground and moans. I hide the gasp of pain caused by my ribs behind a death glare.

"Yes." Axel breaths. I snap my attention to him. "I thought I recognized you. You're that chick from the fight the other night." I don't respond, only harden my gaze.

Another voice pipes up from the crowd behind me. "Yeah, she's the one who janked up Mike's face." I very clearly remember _not_ hurting anybody during that fight, but whatever.

Axel strokes his chin while studying me. "What's your name, kid?"

"Marcy."

"Well, Marcy, here's the deal. You're going to give us some information."

"What makes you think I know anything?"

"You'd better hope you know something, or your boyfriend is dead."

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and clench my fists, one hand gripping the knife. Just in case. I stare at Nick. He imperceptibly shakes his head again. I wait a minute, debating whether or not I should say anything. When I let out a huff of breath, Axel smiles in satisfaction.

"What do you want to know?"

"First of all, where is your boss?"

"My what?"

"The only way you could have known to come here is if you overheard the phone conversation between Nick's mommy and me. You've been with her recently." I can feel Nick's eyes watching me, asking questions I can't answer. Won't answer. Axel doesn't notice. "Tell me where she is."

"She's—" I make the mistake of making eye contact with Nick. He's pleading I don't tell, protect the family that wouldn't protect him. I sigh.

"I can't tell you. Ask me something else."

"Answer the question."

"I can't."

"You don't have a choice. Tell me where your leader is or I yank on this rope so hard that Nick's head pops off." Nick's eyes widen, but he straightens his posture. I search him, trying to ask permission to tell them everything. His brow furrows, his jaw clenches. He would rather die than have me rat out his aunt.

I wait too long to answer.

Axel suddenly tugs on the rope, pulling it taut. Nick's face starts to turn red.

In my panic, I don't anticipate the arms that wrap around my torso. When they squeeze, it feels like my shattered ribs shift in my chest. I hiss. My elbow connects with my attacker's face, and I hear a crack. He deserves it. I lunge away from him and pull my knife from my pocket in one fluid motion. Axel sidesteps my charge easily, but it's not him I'm after.

I see the look of recognition on his face as I speed past him. Then something snags my foot, and I have to make a Maximum Ride split-second decision. Just before I hit the floor, I launch the knife through the air.

The blade slices cleanly through the rope, uncoiling from Nick's neck and falling to the floor in front of me. He gulps for air. But I don't have time to enjoy my relief; a tug on my left foot pulls me backwards, and I blindly kick out with my right foot until it connects with something solid. The hold on my only strengthens, and I take the chance to look backwards to aim my next kick better.

A shock of pain rolls up my arm. Axel twists his boot, grinding my hand into the floor. I grit my teeth.

"Now that I have your attention," Axel says, "I'm going to ask you again." The hold on my feet gone, I try to sit up, but he signals his lackeys, and it's like a hungry pack of wolves had been released; I'm the steak. In seconds, they have me on my back, arms and legs outstretched and restrained. I pull at my arms, but earn a kick to the side. I gasp, my ribs taking time to settle back into bearable levels of pain. Nick, more confident with air in his lungs, pulls on his handcuffs.

Axel leans over me, his wicked grin back on his face. "Where is your leader?" I stay quiet, even when he nudges that tender spot in my ribs again with his boot. Then he walks around behind my head, and I have to crane my neck to see what he's doing. He wrenches my knife from the wall where it stuck and approaches Nick. I thrash, but the lackeys' holds hold.

Axel begins twirling my knife and circles Nick like he's prey. Nick stares at the floor and takes slow, shallow breaths. Making sure I watch, Axel stops behind Nick and wraps an arm around his torso to hold him steady. He raises the knife.

"Wait! Stop!"

Axel only glances in my direction. "Tell me where she is!"

Nick's eyes leave the floor, begging me not to say anything. My heart pounds in my ears, watching the blade hovering inches over Nick's abdomen. I'm suddenly reminded of my nightmare, the one where I fell out of the tree.

"Tell me!" Axel lowers the tip of the blade to Nick's stomach.

Screw his aunt. I can't watch Fang die again.

"She's—"

"I'm right here."


	16. Reaching for Redemption

"I'm right here."

It's like all of the air is sucked out of the room. The only sound is that of the bunker door slamming shut, followed by the soft tapping of feet on the metal staircase. Axel lowers the knife to his side but tightens his hold on Nick. Not that Nick is going anywhere.

The woman who swings around the corner clutches a pistol in her right hand, but I know enough about firearms to know that firing one in this tiny room underground would be about as safe as letting me cook. (Read: deadly). Her long dark hair has been tossed into a messy ponytail, and she wears the same bullet-belt I spotted in the fight a few days ago.

Bess regards the room with a cool air, nodding faintly to the men sitting against the wall behind her, until her eyes land on Nick. They narrow.

Axel sniggers. "So glad you decided to join us."

She calmly takes a few steps forward, raising her gun to aim at his head. "Cut the crap, Axel." He stiffens. "Yeah, I know who you are. And you," she gestures to the lackeys pinning me to the floor, "I know who you are, too."

"But we don't have the pleasure of knowing who _you_ are, sweetheart," Axel says. "Nicky here claimed that _he_ was the leader, which is ridiculous, of course, and your boys weren't cooperating—"

"I didn't come here to listen to you blabbering. I'm Bess. You want information? I'm willing to give it to you, but you have to let Nick go, first." Seeing me, she adds as an afterthought, "and his girlfriend."

"I am _not_ —"

"I'll let the chick go, but Nick stays with me until we're through."

"That wasn't the deal."

"The deal is off. You're late, your son's girlfriend showed up, and, frankly, I hold all of the cards right now. So you can tell me what I want to hear or I _will_ kill your son and make you watch. Got it?"

Bess grinds her jaw in anger. But then she makes eye contact with Nick and her face softens somewhat. Axel impatiently raises the knife again and drives a shallow gash into Nick's forearm. "Got it?!"

Bess huffs air through her nose in defeat. "Fine."

Axel grins like the Grinch. "Excellent. Boys, would you be so kind?" The hands holding me down suddenly begin dragging me towards that meeting room.

Bess protests. "What are you doing? That's not—"

Axel responds lightly. "A fighter, that one. Can't have her interfering with our 'negotiations.' So she'll hang out in there until we're done." I'm unceremoniously flung into the room, and the door slams shut behind me. The lock clicks. I aggressively knock on the door a couple of times, but I'm pretty sure my kind of mutant strength isn't the kind that can punch through three inches of steel.

When the door is proven not to budge, I take in my surroundings better. At least I'm alone in the room. I mean, if I were locked in here with some crazy dude or a skeleton or something it'd be weird. As it is, I'm just underground locked by myself in a dim metal room without any windows or a way out and is the room getting smaller or is that just me?

I pace to keep myself from thinking about it too hard.

"Tell me what you want." Oh, so the steel is apocalypse-proof but not sound-proof? That's a nice feature.

"Two things. First, the drugs."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play coy with me, old lady." Nick huffs in thinly-concealed pain, and my brain instantly plays flashbacks from my recent nightmares. Or maybe actual memories. I don't know.

"Wait. What about them?"

"The recipe. The dealers. Everything."

"Even I don't know that—"

"You'd better figure it out soon."

A pause. "Fine. This is everything I have." There's rustling, and what sounds like an envelope opening.

"Good enough. Now item two."

"What is it?"

"Where is our leader?"

. . .

"What?"

"You heard me. Where is our leader?"

"How should I know?" Well, this is an interesting development. I press against the door as though it will help me hear better.

"You and your filthy gang members took him, and I want to know where—"

"I didn't order anybody to kidnap your leader, and my subordinates aren't stupid enough to cross me like that."

"Are you sure you don't want to reconsider? Because Nick isn't looking too good. I don't know how well he would take another cut like _this_."

"Stop! I had nothing to do with your leader! Why don't you ask the guy with the flamethrower. Isn't he supposed to be second in command?"

"Oh, that's cute. Tell me where they are, _both_ of them." So they're both missing?

"I don't know."

"Does _this_ jog any memories?"

"Stop! I have no idea where-"

"TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!" Oh crap. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. This isn't going to end well. This is—

A distinctive thud.

"NICK!"

My heart skips a beat. I violently yank on the doorknob, hoping it will magically loosen and open up to me. On the other side of the steel, I can hear chaos. The external bunker door opens and closes. A gun is fired. "Not in here you idiot!" More scuffling, panting, banging, in rhythm with the hammering of my heart.

The doorknob twists in my hands, and the door swings open from the outside. I pounce into the fray without a second thought. It's a jumble of bodies in too little space, somewhere between extreme Twister and the crowd at a heavy metal concert. All of the men who had been sitting by the wall fight with tooth and nail, pulling no punches. My first thought is to get to Nick. From what I can tell, he's still handcuffed in the corner of the room. I'll have to fight through the crowd to get to him.

I can do that.

I dodge a gun-wielding fist and sweep out my attacker's feet. He falls into some guy on my right, who thrusts a knife towards me as he is thrown off balance. With a simple twist, I pull the knife from his hands. A weapon could be handy, trying to move through this crowd. I lunge towards Nick again, but two fighting gang members block the way. Frustrated, I push between the two, nearly getting stabbed in the process. Oops.

The next three minutes are spent whirling, ducking, and lunging my way through a maze of bodies. Finally, I see Nick.

Oh, no.

He hangs limply from the ceiling, his head drooping. A knife— _my_ knife—has been planted in his abdomen, only the hilt sticking out.

I break into a sprint, not caring who can see my insane mutant abilities. "Nick!" When I reach him and see the amount of blood soaking his shirt, my stomach flips. I tug on his handcuffs, even though I know how pointless it is. If birdkids had the ability to break handcuffs, well, a lot of my problems would have been solved a long time ago. "Nick! Can you hear me?" Another yank. I need the keys!

"Not so fast!" And I'm flying sideways, propelled by Axel's meaty arm. I catch myself on the wall and launch towards Fang again.

I mean—never mind.

I grab Nick's shoulders and shake him, probably more forcibly than what would be recommended for someone in his condition. But, by golly, it works. He doesn't lift his head, but his eyes flutter open. Thank God.

Something grabs my hair and pulls me backwards. Dang it, I knew I needed a haircut. Almost without thinking about it, I chop the excess off with the knife in my hand. I whip around with a snarl. Axel stumbles backwards, still grasping my mangy locks in his hand. A jingling catches my attention, and then I notice the lanyard hanging out of Axel's pocket. A set of keys merrily clink against one another as he shifts his weight into a sloppy defensive position.

He notices me staring, and his lips twist into that wicked grin of his. "Come on, then."

I roll my eyes. _Crack!_ My kick probably knocks out a few of his teeth, ruining his ugly smirk. He recovers quickly and uses his momentum to swing a heavy fist in my direction. I duck beneath it and ram my full body into his side, shifting his weight into his heels. He tries to grab me, but I slip through his grip as easily as youth slipped through Prince William's hair. While Axel is still off balance, I aim a few punches at his head, hoping to knock him out. He escapes the brunt of each blow; I only manage to clip him.

Man, I'm out of shape.

We slowly move our way into the thick of the brawl. While I'm distracted with Axel, I don't notice the man behind me until he's kicked the backs of my knees. I fall forwards, but tuck into a ball and somersault my way back to my feet. I misjudge my space, though, and rise much closer to Axel than I would like. I use it to my advantage to slice the lanyard attaching the keys to his pocket with my knife. They fly across the room. When I lunge to catch them, Axel drives his elbow into that tender spot in my ribs.

"Gah!" The pain shoots through my entire body, and it hurts to breathe. I shift intentions and back away from Axel. He hurdles towards me like a wind-up toy. And incredibly strong, arrogant, smug wind-up toy. I have no choice but to work on the defensive while I try to catch my breath. Granted, he's no Eraser, but my still-scabbed-over arms are going to be several shades of blue tomorrow. Then my back hits the wall, and I realize I've run out of room.

This was his intention, of course. Axel smiles a crooked grin—I notice with pride that, indeed, one of his front teeth is missing—and winds his whole body up to drive into what he must have figured out is my weak spot.

"Hey!" I glance past Axel and watch Bess toss the keys towards me. Luckily, I have the reflexes to catch them _and_ dodge Axel at the same time. Axel's fist leaves a dent in the wall. He growls and turns on his heel to face Bess. I start to help, but Bess says, "Help Nick. I'll take care of this lunk." Without a second's hesitation, I comply.

Nick's eyes have closed again. "Nick! Wake up!" He doesn't respond. I notice that he's gone pale. The blood has spread down to his pants. Oh, gosh. It takes a few tries to find the keys that unlock his handcuffs. Once I release him, I carefully lower him to the ground. The jostling seems to wake him up; he opens his eyes half way.

"Good, Nick. Stay with me!" I rip his shirt open around the stab wound. If I learned one thing from life experience, it's that wounds bleed more when there's nothing blocking the blood flow; for now, the knife stays in. Nick tries to lift his head, but I carefully push it back down. If he sees this, he'll freak out. I need his heart rate slow so he doesn't bleed out.

I rip the bottom of my T-shirt off and I wad it up around the knife. When I add pressure, Nick moans through his gag. Realizing this, I remove it. He coughs shallowly.

I glance back at Bess. Dang, no wonder she's the leader. She's managing to hold her own against the Hulk. I turn back to Nick, who has turned another shade whiter. The material under my hands has soaked through with blood already. If I don't get him out of here soon. . . no, I'm not going to let that happen. I grab Nick's hands, clammy and shaking, and place them over his wound. "I need you to press down, okay? It will help stop the bleeding." Nick nods, and the trembling slows as he applies pressure. "Good. Everything is going to be okay. Now, this may hurt a little bit." I slide my arms beneath his knees and shoulders and carefully lift. He squints his eyes shut and moans, but is otherwise unresponsive. "Stay with me, Nick. I've got you."

Gosh, this hurts. My ribs feel like they're on fire. I grit my teeth and make my way across the bunker floor as quickly as I can without jostling Nick too much. Most of the fighters have left; only a handful of Reds and Shades remain, with Axel and Bess nowhere in sight. They pay me no attention as I climb the stairs and throw the bunker door open with my shoulders.

Axel is waiting outside. I manage to climb out of the bunker before he charges. With no spare hands to fight, I have no choice but to sprint past him. Under normal circumstances, this should put plenty of distance between Axel and me in a matter of seconds, but these aren't normal circumstances. My ribs burn and Nick is dead weight in my arms. Gosh, where is Bess? I hear the all-too familiar click of a gun. Outside of the bunker, firearms are much more accurate.

A bullet ricochets off some rubble near me. I veer to the right. I don't even know where I'm going from here; I just need to get Nick to safety. No, to a hospital. His hand slips off his stomach. I look down and realize that his eyes have slipped shut again. "Nick! Don't you dare! Stay with me!" They open a crack but remain unfocused. Another bullet whizzes past my head, and I change directions again.

Headlights suddenly materialize from the small road, half-blinding me. I run away from the car, but instead of following me it chases Axel back. When my eyes adjust, I realize who's behind the wheel.

And I don't believe it.

Nick's mom pulls the car back around to me. She opens the door and leaps from the driver's seat. "Get in! Take Nicholas!" We both duck behind the car as Axel pelts the metal siding with bullets.

"What?" I adjust the dressings on Nick's wounds. When his mom sees them, her eyes brim with tears.

"Oh my God. . . Bess told me—it was a short call, just a minute ago—and it ended abruptly and I had to come help. . ."

"Okay." She obviously needs somebody to tell her what to do. "We're going to take him to the hospital. You drive. Do you have a gun?"

She nods and extracts a pistol from beneath the driver's seat. I try to open the back door to the car, but bullets pelt the car too close for comfort. I duck back down, Nick still in my arms. His eyes are shut again. "Nick? Come on, stay with me." But this time, it doesn't work. I tighten my grip. This whole situation is like a ticking time bomb; wait too long, and Axel and his goons will have this car surrounded or Nick will bleed out right here in my arms. Whichever comes first.

I don't notice the change in Nick's mom's face. "There's a letter in the cabin."

"A letter—what?"

"From Bess. Find it." Then she stands up, into the line of fire, raises the gun, and shoots. The sound of gunfire drowns out everything else for a moment, and I do nothing but watch as red blooms across her sweatshirt. She stays standing, shooting at the gunmen. I think she actually hits a few.

When they stop to reload, Nick's mother sways and hits the ground. She looks at me with glassy eyes. "Go. Take Nick." When she coughs, blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. "Tell him—tell him—"

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "I will." Not wanting to waste the time she bought us, I throw Nick into the back seat-as carefully as I can-and take my place behind the wheel of the vehicle.

It only takes a few tries to figure out how to make the thing move, and the tires spin, and then I'm driving down the pitch-black forest road, my fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel.

"Nick, stay with me. Come on, only a few more minutes. You're going to be okay."

I glance at him in the rear view mirror. He's white and still. I slam the gas pedal.

"Please don't die."


	17. Hazardous Hospital

"Come on, Nick, you can't die. You haven't had any of my cooking yet." I don't even pay attention to the endless stream of words spewing from my mouth as I pull up to the hospital. Up to, as in, five feet from the automatic doors. I don't even turn the car off before I'm pulling Nick from the back seat like Jeb used to pull twigs from our feathers.

"Almost there, Nick. Just hold on." My crazy parking job has attracted attention. When I sprint through the front doors, there's already somebody with scrubs waiting for me. Somebody else rolls a gurney in. I numbly lower Nick onto the bed, and then he's swept away through a set of double doors. When I start to follow, a gentle hand lays on my shoulder.

"I'm afraid you can't go back there, sweetie." I just stand there, deliberating the pros and cons of knocking this lady out and following Nick to the back anyways. Then I realize that I _really_ don't feel like fighting any more tonight. I practically feel my body getting heavier with my exhaustion.

The lady must sense this, because she calmly leads me to a waiting room full of dismal people. "It's going to be okay, sweetie. Here, have a bottle of water. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

**~xXx~**

Dr. Loretta Sanders was bored. Already halfway through her twelve-hour shift, and she had already seen a dozen patients, but they were all the same. Routine. Not that she hoped something would go wrong, but Monday nights were just so. . . dull.

She didn't realize this would be a problem when she graduated from medical school. According to the media, being a doctor in a busy hospital is like being a superhero. There's entitlement; there's prestige; there's _excitement_. But there was no way she could glorify drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee and filling out paperwork.

Her pager beeped. _Here we go_ , she thought, fully expecting another case of self-diagnosed "chest pain" or alcohol poisoning. But when she read her pager, her eyes grew wide. She sprang from her desk and sprinted out of her office.

She met the gurney halfway to the trauma center. The kid—he looked no older than sixteen—was a mess. At least, what she could see of his skin was bad. She wondered what they would find when they got him cleaned up. Her eyes drifted from his oxygen mask down towards a wad of blood-soaked fabric on his stomach. Keeping pace with the gurney, she peeled back the cloth and gasped. A _knife_ was sticking out. Good grief, what had this boy gotten into?

There was no time to waste. Dr. Sanders and the kid arrive at the trauma center to a waiting team. While the nurses prepared the necessary equipment, the doctor took the boy's pulse. One hundred and two beats per minute. Too high.

"BP at 94 and dropping. Heart rate one-oh-two. Get the kid some blood." Dr. Sanders took scissors and began removing the boy's clothing to assess the damage further. She cut up the front and down the sleeves of his shirt and removed the excess cloth. A nurse was ready with saline-soaked rags to clean around the cuts criss-crossing his abdomen.

The heart monitor was finally running, and it wasn't looking good.

"We've got a Class Three Hemmorage. Where's that blood?" A nurse stuck an IV into the boy's arm and attached a bag full of O negative. Dr. Sanders cut open the boy's jeans next, revealing a deep gash across his thigh. She flushed it with saline solution. The heart rate continued to rise.

"He needs surgery."

"He's lost too much blood. Taking him into surgery right now could—"

The heart monitor flatlined.

**~xXx~**

"Miss? Are you alright?"

I snap back into reality. I don't know if it is the antiseptic smell, the white lab coats, or the harsh fluorescent lighting, but the hospital is taking me back to places I definitely did not want to go. I try to calm my breathing, noticing all the funny looks I'm getting from the other people in the waiting room and suddenly appreciating my decision to rinse off most of the blood. My eyes squeeze shut. It was just a daymare. Do those exist? Sure, because I don't want to admit that what I just experienced was a flashback from my childhood.

"You're Miss. . . " the nurse checks her clipboard, "Baker, correct? You're here with Philip?" I nod my head. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It shouldn't take too long."

Here we go again.

To her credit, the nurse hands me a cup of coffee to sip while she interrogates me. She probably thinks I'll drink it, too, seeing as I've been awake the duration of the night plus Nick's four-hours-going-on-five stint in surgery. But even in my sleep-deprived, aching, starving state, I'm too paranoid to put this foreign food in my body. It still serves as a thing to stare at while answering questions, though.

"So Philip is your—"

"He's my brother. Step-brother."

"Okay. And your parents?"

"Um. They're out of the picture?"

"Aren't you a little young to be living on your own?" Yes. Too young to be dealing with a dying person and gang wars and mutant genes and a missing family. But I can't tell her that, so I give her a look instead. She backpedals. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

I give her what I hope is an easy smile. "No, it's okay. We get that a lot. Declared independence." I shrug. "In our case, the wicked step-mother was a real thing, you know?"

"Oh." Yeah, I don't know what I would say in reply to that, either. I go back to staring at the coffee in my hands.

"Do you have any of Philip's medical history?"

Well, considering that until recently I thought he was created in a test tube like me, "no."

"Do you know his blood type?"

He's not Fang, so, "No."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I already told the doctor."

"I know, and I'm sorry. It's just procedure."

I wince. 'Procedure' took Iggy's sight. "I'm not really sure what happened. We were in a car wreck. There must have been a knife in the glove compartment."

"Didn't you arrive in a car?"

I thought she would ask. "Yes, the person who hit us offered us a ride. He didn't stick around, though. He looked pretty shaken up."

"You don't remember anything else?"

I shake my head. The less I know, the less they'll pry. "Are we done here? I need to go to the bathroom."

"Just one more question. Are you okay? Your brother—"

"Step-brother."

"Philip sustained quite a lot of injuries during the accident. Are you sure you're okay?"

I hide how I hug my ribs by crossing my arms. Earlier, when I cleaned up in the bathroom, I examined them myself. The left side of my ribcage looks like a watercolor painting with purples and yellows and everything in between. "No, I'm fine." At her look, I continue. "The passenger side was hit."

"Well, honey—" I cringe at the use of that word. It reminds me of the brute I left at the warehouse. "The doctors are afraid you might have a concussion. Why don't you just come with me and we'll scan your head for any potential damage."

I lock up. No _way_ I'm going back there. No examinations. The sight of my wings _might_ freak people out. I need an excuse. A distraction. Something.

"Is Philip going to be okay?"

The nurse smiles a little. "I promise we'll let you know if anything changes." I curl my toes. She took the bait, but it doesn't mean I'm pleased with her answer.

"Miss Baker? Philip is out of surgery." This from someone with a clipboard who just walked from the back.

"Coming!" I self-consciously make sure my windbreaker is zipped, hiding the fact that I'm only wearing half a shirt.

"But first you need—"

"I'm fit as a fiddle. Please, I need to see my brother." The nurse hesitates, then nods. I smile. Ha! You'll never take me alive!

The lady with a clipboard leads me down white tiled hallways, past room after room filled with sick and dying people. My mutant abilities mean I can hear each tired breath, each moan of pain. I can smell the blood and bile. I can sense the danger—no. Calm down. There's no danger here. Deep breath. In—Ouch! Maybe not so deep next time.

"Here you go! He's still working off the anesthetic, so he might not wake up while you're here."

"It's okay. Thank you." The nurse leaves me alone in the small room with Nick. Of course, the first thing I do is scan the room for possible escape strategies, in case one of the doctors decides to reveal the more eccentric side of his or her personality. Hm, the windows are caulked shut, but not bullet-proof. I can always jump through them.

"Hey." I jump before looking at Nick for the first time since entering the room. The hospital gown does little to hide his skin, made a patchwork of bruises and cuts that I'm sure will scar. Several bags hang by his bed, their contents filtering into the IV in his arm. The white gauze wrapped around his stomach bulges under the hospital gown. To put it simply, he looks like road kill.

His face, swollen in several places, pulls into a frown. "That's not very nice." Oh, great, did I say that out loud? His face twists into a lopsided, goofy grin. "But it's okay because you're tough. You saved me." He slurs his words.

What kind of pain meds did they put him on? I want some. I walk up to examine the IV bags. Morphine. Of course.

"Heyyy. Your hair." Suddenly there are fingers running through my freshly cut, shoulder-length hair. I grab Nick's hand and disentangle it from my mane.

"Yeah. There was. . . I cut it."

Nick pouts. I tuck the image away into my mental memory bank. Nick may not be Fang, but he looks similar enough that that face—that face is precious. He continues, oblivious to my growing smile. "I liked it long."

I roll my eyes. "Don't worry, now your hair is more fabulous than mine." Without thinking about it, I add, "and your doppelganger's hair is longer." Nick stares at me. Oh, crap, I shouldn't have said that. Now he knows. . . Oh. He's staring because I'm still holding his hand. I quickly let go, but he doesn't. I swallow uncomfortably with the eye contact we're making.

"Um, Nick, on a scale from sober to hippie, how, um, conscious are you right now?"

Nick giggles. _Giggles_. That's all the answer I need.

A knock on the open door. A woman walks in, wearing a white lab coat. "Oh, am I interrupting something?"

I pull my hand from Nick's. "No! No." My cheeks burn.

The doctor gives us a weird look. We're supposed to be brother and sister, after all. Great. Gross. But the doctor—her nametag labels her as a Dr. Loretta Sanders—continues without any questions. "I'm Nick's doctor for the duration of his stay. I understand you're his sister?"

"Step-sister, yes."

"Then I'll explain what we've done so you can tell him when the anesthesia has worn off. I'm sure that won't be any problem?"

I look at Nick, who watches the doctor through droopy eyelids. "Nope, no problem at all."

The doctor explains the surgery, the blood transfusion, how long he'll need to be in the hospital. The knife hit some internal organs, and while the surgeon was able to sew them back up, Nick will be on a liquid diet for about a week. As of right now, though, his outlook is positive.

"It's a miracle, really," she says. "We actually lost him once." My stomach clenches. He _died_.

Dr. Sanders talks more about paying the hospital bill, calling the nurses if anything goes wrong, et cetera. I zone out, trying to deal with a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is not the School. Nick is going to be okay. Finally, the doctor leaves.

I stand up to pace and release my nervous energy. Nick's hand finds my jacket. I thought he was asleep. "Don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere." And I mean it. I sit in the chair across the room and watch his eyes close and his breathing even out.

Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, too.

" _NO! STOP!"_

_Riiiiiip!_

_A terrible scream._

" _What are you going to do, birdie?"_

_Riiiiiippp!_

" _STOP! I'll do anything! Please—"_

_A hoarse laugh. "Sorry, boss' orders!"_

_RiiiiIIIIiiiiip!_

_Loose feathers drift to the floor of the cave. My eyes follow the blood as it blazes a trail through the red dust. I can't watch._

" _Don't worry, Maxie. We'll leave your wings attached." The Flock struggles as the Erasers drag them to the edge of the cave, kicking up a dust cloud. "Better to catch your friends with!"_

_And with that, the wingless Flock is shoved over the edge of the cliff._

" _Max!" I wrench myself free from the hands holding me down. The Erasers don't keep me from diving over the edge. They know I can't save them all._

" _Max!" Fang. My breath hitches. His face is purple and blue and swollen. His shirt has been ripped off, exposing the two long, deep sockets where his wings used to be attached. He reaches up for me. I reach a hand out. So close._

" _Max!" We're too close to the ground. I can't. I can't catch him. I can't save any of them. I'm going to watch them die again. A sudden thought occurs to me. The Erasers aren't holding me back; I could smash in the ground with them. Just keep my wings tucked in._

_Forty feet. Thirty feet. I can't keep watching them die._

_Fang grabs my hand. I look into his eyes, preparing for the inevitable as the ground swells beneath us._

" _Maxine Baker!_ WAKE UP!"

I jump into a defensive position before my eyes are adjusted to the dark. Unfortunately, I pull Nick with me.

"Ow."

I look down and realize that I have Nick's hand in my fist. "Oh sorry." I let go.

Nick fumbles to his feet. Wait a second. "Nick, what are you doing out of bed? You're going to rip open your stitches." And then all of your internal organs are going to spill out and I don't know if I could deal with that in my current emotional state.

Nick shrugs. "You were having a nightmare. I had to wake you up." I would be flattered if he weren't swaying on his feet.

I reach out to steady him. "Woah, there. Let me help you." Nick doesn't protest. I have to support most of his weight back across the room. Once he's settled back on his bed, I surreptitiously check the gauze taped over his stomach. Nothing has begun bleeding yet. "You need to stay in bed for at least a few more days."

Nick groans. The pain meds must be wearing off. "Don't remind me."

"Hey, it could be worse."

"How?"

"Don't be such a drama queen. You could have died."

"I _did_ die." Yeah, I know. And you about scared the daylights out of me.

"Doesn't count. You were in the hospital."

"They had to use the paddles!"

"You should be happy you didn't die underground. You're lucky I got my butt down there to help you, especially since. . . "especially since your aunt wasn't about to. But the words get caught in my throat. Bess did show up, in the end. I guess she doesn't _suck_ , but it's not like she stuck around, either.

"What?"

"Especially since I'm the only girl who doesn't have anybody to tell what a great damsel in distress you make." Nick rolls his eyes. Ah, that's more like it.

A nurse comes through the door, carrying a small cup of pills and a bottle of water, both of which he sets on the fancy table next to Nick's hospital bed. "Take these as soon as you feel up to it, okay?" Nick nods, already trying to open the bottle of water.

I interrupt him. "What are these pills for?"

The nurse smiles at me. "Pain medication. Philip is in a lot of pain, and these should help." I nod, pretending that repetitive answer is enough. The nurse starts to walk out the door, but hesitates at the doorway. "Is everything okay in here? I heard screaming."

I wave my hand flippantly. "Oh, I, uh—" Eloquent, huh?

"I had a nightmare," Nick says. I look at him in surprise. Okay.

The nurse nods. "It's common, with what you've been through. It should pass. In the meantime, we can get you something to help you sleep, if you want."

Nick looks at me. "No, I'm going to be okay." He then points at me, turning back to the nurse. "My sister has been known to put squirrels to sleep with her endless, boring prattle about fashion."

It's everything I can do to not strangle the boy.

The nurse raises his eyebrow, but leaves without asking any more questions. I give Nick a death glare. Well, not "death," more of a "maim" glare; he's injured, after all. He misses its full force, distracted by the water bottle he's trying to open. The IVs in his arms keep getting caught on the bed's guard rails.

Wait a second.

Nick's about to take a sip when I slap it out of his grip. Water spills down the front of his hospital gown. "Hey!"

"Sh! Don't drink that!"

Nick isn't paying attention. He's trying to sop up some of the water with the sheets. "What's _wrong_ with you?" I bite the inside of my cheek. A heck of a lot, actually.

I truck on. "You just had _surgery_ , Nick. They had to take out some of your small intestine."

"And?"

I whisper-shout. "And that nurse—who, by the way, is different from the one who's been waiting on you for the last few hours—just gave you solid food to eat. You shouldn't be eating anything for another week at least!"

"But it's just water—"

I point to the IV in his arm. "No, that's what _this_ is. And it's supposed to be your pain meds, too. Earlier they had you on morphine."

"They—what? I didn't say anything stupid, did I?"

Heh. Yes. "Doesn't matter. Something's up." I drop the pills in my pocket in case he gets any ideas. "Wait here."

"But—" His words are cut off as I leave.


	18. Required Recovery

My first instinct is to ninja my way around the hospital in a similar to the fashion used at the E-shaped house on April first. But then reason kicks in. I mean, I'm allowed to be here. It's not even that weird for me to be wandering around the hospital looking lost. So I saunter down the hall as naturally as my frayed nerves will allow me to, keeping my eyes peeled for a nurse—actually, he's probably not a nurse—with brown hair, a square jaw, and an uneasy gait indicative of bad knees.

If worse comes to worse, I could easily outrun him. Unless he's an Eraser. I don't know if he necessarily looks good enough to be one, but maybe he's defective? Maybe the School got smart and made the mutants look less like supermodels trying too hard to blend in with the rest of us? I mean, I haven't exactly been on the move this whole time—a certain day I spent _unconscious_ comes to mind—and the very fact that I _haven't_ been attacked (by an Eraser, at least), puts me more on edge than if I had been ambushed in the mall a few days ago. Surely they, at least know where I am by now.

But it's not like I could whisk Nick away in his condition right now, anyways. _I_ certainly don't have IV-food or pain meds to give him, and when he's released, he'll probably still be in precautionary bed rest for another week, which doesn't really go well with "life on the run".

It doesn't matter, either way. I circle the entire hospital several times. There's no sign of the not-a-nurse, not even the echo of a maniacal laugh floating up from the basement. After a while, I become more concerned about leaving Nick alone in his hospital room for almost an hour than finding the guy, so I decide to return.

I knock on the open door to let Nick know I'm coming in. He sits up, winces, and leans back on his bed again. For the umpteenth time, I wonder how he managed to get out of bed and wake me up during one of my 'episodes'. One look at my face, and he says, "What? The fact the nurse _isn't_ a psychotic killer makes you upset?"

I walk to Nick's window and study the parking lot through half-closed blinds. "No, he disappeared. If you ask me, that's more suspicious than if I had found him in a lab blending toxic chemicals into a patient's smoothie." Nick's answering silence gives away his "look". I turn to him to find his eyebrow is raised in a slightly-exaggerated copy of Fang's typical expression when addressing me.

"So he brought food to the wrong room—"

"A deadly mistake that should be brought to someone's attention—"

"Max, he's probably been working all night. Give him a break, it was an honest mistake."

"But—"

"He's only human." Nick delivers this phrase with a sort of ironic, knowing smirk.

I scowl, turning back to the window. "Okay, you know what? I'm paranoid. But you leave your house for one second and end up getting kidnapped and held for ransom and _dying_. So my feelings are justified."

Nick opens and closes his mouth a few times, but there's no denying it, especially while lying in a hospital bed. He eventually settles for changing the subject.

"So, you changed your hair."

Heat creeps to my face as I remember drugged-up Nick's reaction to my haircut. "I donated it to charity." I drop into the seat next to his bed. "Nah, it was needing a trim, anyways. When it gets too long, it gets in my face when I. . . you know. Axel grabbed it while I was trying to help get you down, and I. . . are you okay?"

Nick had visibly paled. "Yeah! I'm fine."

My eyes narrow. "You don't _look_ fine."

He scoffs half-heartedly. "Well, that's just rude."

I swat at one of the few places on his body that isn't bruised or broken. "Seriously. You okay?"

He shrugs with the shoulder that hadn't been dislocated. "I guess. . . Just a little shook up, that's all."

I nod knowingly. The kids were young when they left the School; while Nudge mostly remembered things, Gazzy's memories were hazy and Angel's nonexistent. Fang, Iggy, and I, on the other hand, remembered everything with painful clarity. Angel once made the mistake of diving into our nightmares, which were (and still are) composed of our memories. It was a long time before she would let me sleep in my own bed again. Coincidentally, I have a lot of experience playing therapist. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His answer is quiet. "Not really."

"You sure? I'm an expert shrink."

"You would know," he jokes, but I can tell he's running on automatic. I wait a moment, unsure of whether to make him say it out loud or not. He fiddles with his sheets in the heavy silence.

I grab his restless hand and hold it still. "Hey. I know how you feel."

"Really?" He doesn't sound hopeful, he sounds like someone whose life was just shattered. Skeptical.

I look away and take a shuddering breath, repressing a whirlwind of memories. "Yes."

He squeezes my hand lightly. "Do _you_ want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "I can't." Nick is quiet, waiting for me to continue. I pull my hand away from his, but immediately regret the loss of warmth. "Too much to lose."

"You can trust me."

"It's not you I'm worried about."

 

**Day 2**

 

"Hello? May I come in?"

Nick nods, tearing his eyes from the television screen in his room. I can't blame him; this TV movie has some serious drama. Unfortunately, the nurse entering looks like she's ready to take his vitals and change his bandages. I sigh, stretching as I stand to leave. Changing bandages means getting under the hospital gown, and Nick and I aren't _that_ close yet. Er, ever. Ew.

While awkwardly waiting in the hallway, something catches my eye. A hulking figure disappears around a corner, down another hallway. Without the scrubs, I wouldn't have recognized not-a-nurse but for his limp. Bingo.

As any good, paranoid mutant would, I follow him around the corner, where I catch sight of him slipping into what must be a small office. I nonchalantly lean against the wall by the door. At a time like this, it would be great to have a cell phone to pretend to fiddle with while I eavesdrop. I settle for scanning one of those public health posters.

Public service announcement: Syphilis is nasty.

I definitely recognize the voice of the nurse who had waited on Nick the day before. "The girl won't leave. You think we should. . ." He must be on his cell phone; even straining I can't hear another voice.

"That should work. Especially if the drugs don't." I roll the pills in my pocket around my fingers. I hadn't even wondered if they were really pain meds. They could be poison, for all I know.

Not-a-nurse continues. "Calm down. The kid can't even stand on his own. We have at least a week before he's released. And after that. . . yes, sir. I understand, sir. I'll send you a picture. Just a second."

A picture? Of what? I don't have much time to speculate. Someone in a white coat. By the time he walks out into the hallway, I'm gone.

 

**Day 3**

 

"Hey, stranger."

I roll my eyes to hide how I have to force my shoulders to relax. "I wasn't in the bathroom _that_ long." At his pointed look, I continue. "My jeans were taking forever to dry." Well, that, and I just had a full-blown panic attack, complete with nausea and heart palpitations, because I took my shirt off to wash it and realized that the bruising on my ribs _still_ hasn't faded. But he doesn't need to know that.

"That's why you should have taken my advice and just gotten more clothes from the gift shop."

"I don't have any money."

"I have a coupon. It's called the five-finger discount."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not stealing from a hospital, Nick."

"What about the food you've been eating?"

"Get it from the dumpster between meal times. The cafeteria has to throw away all of the leftovers."

"What?"

I shrug. "It's not that bad, actually. It's all just sitting on the top, and usually the bread isn't even that soggy or anything." I remember what we're arguing about. "And once the food is in the dumpster, it's free reign. Doesn't count as stealing. See? I _do_ have morals." I cross my arms in satisfaction.

"And that's why you know how to pick locks?"

I grimace. I may have let more information slip than I intended in our last few days together. "Look, just because I know _how_ to pick locks doesn't mean I _do_ it."

"Uh-huh."

"No, it's like," I search for a comparison that would make sense. "Like knowing _how_ to snap a neck, but not doing it on moral bases."

He stares at me. Wait, did I say something wrong? "You know how to break someone's neck?"

Cue desperate backpedaling. "Um, no?" Shoot, I thought this was basic knowledge; even the inexperienced experiments would try to use the tactic against Erasers.

Nick throws his hands back. "What else can you do? Kill a man with two fingers? Infiltrate the government? Convince authors of the young-adult genre that not _every_ story has to have a love triangle? Read minds?"

Well, _I_ can't read minds, but, "I can whistle 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'."

Nick suddenly gets quiet. Geesh, I didn't think it was _that_ impressive. But all traces of the joking conversation we just had leave his face. "Why is it even a problem?"

"Why is _what_ a problem?"

"The people chasing you?"

I feel my hackles rise. Six-inch-steel doors slam shut. "Nick, I was kidding about the vampires."

"Ha ha. Okay, but—"

"No." It comes out just as forcefully as I want it to. All of the air is sucked out of the room, and Nick watches me with a mixture of hurt, curiosity, and anger. The hospital room seems to shrink.

"I need some air." I stand forcefully.

Nick reaches for me. "Max—"

"I'll be back." And I half-jog out of the room and out of the building. Outside, the air is about five degrees warmer than 'cool'. I take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension from being in a place similar to my childhood home melting from my shoulders. The weather is beginning to pick up autumn's chill. The Flock would normally be stocking up on supplies this time of year; the mountains had a nasty habit of being cold, snowy, and un-fly-able.

Except the Flock isn't here. Ah, and here comes the worry again. It's been too long. At this point, I'm working with literally zero clues. Why haven't I left yet? Nick is fine; he insists not-a-nurse is a _real_ nurse, not intent on killing him. If he isn't going to trust me, fine! He can go and get himself killed, then!

I look up only to realize I'm standing in front of the car I drove like a madwoman what feels like a lifetime ago. It sits in a nearly-abandoned lot, the furthest one from the building, in a way I hoped wouldn't attract too much attention. But looking at it now, with its bullet-riddled doors, shattered windows, and a hefty amount of dried blood in the passenger seat, it could pass as one of those drunk driving campaign monuments, the _opposite_ of blending in.

Tentatively, I climb inside. It smells like blood, too. I wonder if the scent is strong enough for an Eraser to pick up on. I could drive away right now, and it would either draw any Erasers away from Nick or leave them in the dust. I could cross the country more effectively by car, and I don't know what kind of condition the Flock will be in when I find them. I may need a car if they can't fly.

I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. Who am I kidding? I can't leave Nick. At this point, not only does he know too much, but I care too much. Something tells me I won't be able to shake him once he's well enough to take care of himself. If he ends up following me. . . I wonder how Fang would react to a new member of the Flock that looks exactly like him and can't fly? I grin at the thought of two males vying for my affection. Er, not affection. Attention. No, that didn't help. Two males fighting over hair product. There we go. Love triangles and mutants don't mix.

But my smile falls when I realize the chances of my finding my family are dwindling with each passing day. I itch to move, to go for a fly, even, but I don't trust Nick alone in his room for more than a minute. Only a few days until a week has passed, and not-a-nurse has a deadline. There isn't much I can do to convince Nick there's a problem, but I can still prepare for the inevitable combustion of our current situation. I pull the car around to the back of the hospital. This way, it's less visible and closer to one of the emergency exits I scouted out yesterday.

And now I wait.

 

**Day 4**

 

"Hey, is my phone with all of my clothes and stuff?" Nick is referring to the plastic bag under my seat, full of the mostly shredded clothes he had worn upon his arrival to the hospital.

I pull the bag out and rifle through it. "Doesn't look like it. Hate to break it to you, but it could be anywhere between here and the van you got to the bunker in." I carefully gauge his reaction to my mention of 'the incident'. He takes it better now than he did the first day, but I take note of his white-knuckle grip on his bedsheets.

"Well, do you have a phone? I need to let Bess know I'm okay."

I freeze, the bag halfway under my seat. My mind halts whatever escape routes it was just calculating and sprints head-first into panic mode. "What?"

"Because she hasn't shown up yet, I assume she's gone back into hiding. But she'll want to know I'm okay."

"I don't think—"

"I'm _not_ calling my mother." He spits the word out like a curse. "She can't pick and choose when she wants to be part of my life, and she made her decision a long time ago."

The shock wearing off, I rest my elbows on my knees the way Jeb used to when he told us we had to relocate again because Erasers were getting too close. "Nick, how much do you remember from the other night?"

He flinches and seems to shrink into himself a little. "Enough," is all he says.

I nod. "Okay, but what is the last thing you remember?"

"I don't know—"

This obviously isn't working. "Then figure it out. It's important."

His face scrunches up in confusion and concentration. "Axel stabbed me in the stomach." His hand drifts to the bandages around his abdomen. "And then. . . You got me out of the handcuffs. After that. . ." He huffs. "I don't remember anything else."

I hold my breath.

"Why?"

I walk back to the window. The sun is going down; Nick's nurse—the real one—should be here soon to check his vitals.

"Max, is there something I need to know?"

I hesitate.

"No." I can watch him putting two and two together by his expression in the window's reflection. "No." He buries his hands in his hair. Guilt burns in my gut. If I hadn't tried to convince Bess to come—well, then we'd both be dead.

I sit back down. "Nick, your mother—"

"I don't care—"

"You should." I grab his hand and gently pull it from his stricken face. "She died protecting you."

His eyes light up a moment. "But Bess? Is she. . . "

The hope in his voice, that only that person I can't make him care about died, instead of the mother-figure who almost chose her job over his life, kills me. Nevertheless, I decide then and there that Nick never has to know how close he came to being abandoned. "Last I saw, she was taking on Axel. Your mom got a phone call from her, but it was cut short. I think. . . Bess is gone, too."

He deflates. No, "withers" is a better word.

"I'm alone."

I bite my lip, knowing I might regret what I'm about to say. "You're not alone, Nick. You've got me."

 

**Day 6**

 

Nick's eyes trained on the television, but his mind was wandering elsewhere. It was three in the morning, and he hadn't been able to sleep since the last time the nurse checked his vitals at midnight. He turned to Max. She had been drifting in and out of sleep for the last hour, waking up suddenly several times with a catch in her breath violent enough to make him jump. Then she would put on a stoic face, try to stay awake, and slowly be pulled back into slumber.

He vaguely wondered how much sleep she was used to getting. For the last four days in the hospital, he had only seen her sleep three times, and each of those times he had had to wake her up from a nightmare after only a few hours. Surely she got more than two hours of sleep on a regular basis.

It was no wonder, really, with the way she reacted to that nurse. He made an honest mistake. A possibly fatal one, but an accident still. And yet Max was always on edge, never at ease in the hospital. Nick wondered if there was more to it than the nurse incident.

" _. . . have asked citizens to stay away from the bombing site, as the foundation has been severely compromised and the building could collapse at any moment without warning. . ."_

Nick grimaced. He didn't realize he had been watching the news, and he wasn't exactly excited to learn more about the bombing at his old high school. Though he dropped out of the public education system years ago, he probably knew at least a couple of the missing students. He changed the channel.

A nurse rolled past his door with his clipboard and a cart. Nick recognized him as the one Max had been stalking earlier this week. Was it his imagination, or was there a flash while the nurse passed? Nick shook his head. No, he'd been around Max too long. Her paranoia was wearing off on him.

Speaking of the girl, a loud breath from her direction. Nick turned to her, anticipating opening eyes. But this time, she stayed asleep. He sat up straighter in bed as her breathing picked up in pace.

He had begun to learn the warning signs of her nightmares. First, she would start breathing harder. Then—

"No no no no." She barely breathed the words, but they still carried all the weight of heartbreak. Nick slowly sat up, careful not to pull his stitches. It looked like he would be needed again before-

"FANG!"

Nick got out of bed too quickly, causing little black dots to float in his vision. He didn't pay them any attention. He took his usual place in front of Max, all slouched in her chair, and carefully ran a hand through her hair. Her brow, as usual, was sweaty. "Shh. It's okay, Max." He reached for her shaking, clammy hands. "Max, wake up." Like always, she clenched and fought his grip at the same time. Nick didn't even notice the pain of her nails digging into the scabbed-over cuts across the backs of his hands. "You need to wake up."

"Fang?"

Nick smiled as she opened her eyes. This was the first time she hadn't almost ripped his arms off in the process of coming out of her nightmare. "No, it's Nick."

Max dropped his hands hurriedly. "I. . . I was. . . " She wiped tear tracks off her face with her shirt.

Nick asked the same thing he always did. "You good?"

A weak smile. "Fit as a fiddle."

"Do you want to take about it?"

She took a shuddering breath and shook her head. Nick shrugged and returned to his bed. The doctors said he shouldn't be walking on his own for another day or two at least, but this was an emergency. Besides, he managed to keep most of his dignity, even when clumsily repositioning himself under the sheets.

Max's breath eventually evened out. This time, Nick's did, too.

He was finally able to fall asleep.

 

**Day 9**

 

I've decided that sleep is for the weak. The hospital's bitter coffee and I have become very close. The caffeine makes me jittery, but anything is better than reliving my family dying over and over again.

Nick helps, though. The few times I've drifted off, he's the one who pulls me from the eerie recesses of my own mind. At first it hurt to see him and realize he's not Fang, but this last time I was just as relieved to see him as I would be to wake up and find the whole Flock in the room.

Well, that may have been a _slight_ exaggeration.

"Would you rather. . . have it always be day or always be night?"

"Oh, that's easy. Day, so everybody can see my fabulous hair all the time."

"Uh-huh." I roll my eyes. Nick had taught me the game to help pass the time, and, two hours later, it was still our main source of entertainment. The doctors said they were looking over his papers again, and if the odds were good, he would be released tomorrow. "Your turn."

"Night vision or enhanced hearing?"

I smirk in response.

"No. You're kidding." Nick suddenly sits up from his bed. He's able to move around better now.

"What?" I adjust my position in the chair to allow for better breathing. Slowly but surely, my ribs have gotten better. They just aren't quite up to "not-sucky" yet.

"You—well, that explains a lot."

I just smile at him. But it falters when a cart rolls into the room, followed by not-a-nurse. I hadn't told Nick about the phone call I overheard. Just because _I'm_ skeptical of everyone doesn't mean that _he_ has to be. Still, I had been keeping tabs on the guy over the past week. He had made several phone calls to the same person as last time, and the same general conversation occurred each time. Not-a-nurse was supposed to do something about Nick and me before he was discharged. That being tomorrow, I've been on high alert. (Reason number two for chugging coffee by the barrel).

"How are you feeling?" Not-a-nurse begins his conversation with the same easy question all of the hospital staff asks upon entering the room.

Nick gives an equally-practiced answer. "Making progress." He was, too. The swelling on most of his bruises had gone down, and he'd graduated to being allowed to get into the bathroom by himself. Color had returned to his face.

"Great to hear it." Is it just me, or did I detect a little sarcasm? "I've just brought your medicine for this afternoon." Oh, yeah, Nick has also been allowed to eat solid food. It would be great, if I wasn't constantly having to make sure the stuff wasn't poisoned before letting him eat it. The goldfish in the lobby never stood a chance.

Most of them are dead now.

"Miss?" I'm snapped out of my thoughts when not-a-nurse has the nerve to address me directly. I'm ninety-nine percent sure he knows I'm on to him.

Still, for the sake of appearances, I answer cordially. "Yes?"

"I'm going to teach your brother a few exercises to help his rehabilitation. Could you step out of the room for a moment?"

Um, _heck_ no. "Why can't I be present? I might be able to help."

Not-a-nurse frowns. "There's not enough room."

"Well, isn't there supposed to be a gym or something where this stuff happens?" I scan the room for a better(less lethal) weapon to use than the knife in my pocket.

"No."

"Maxine," Nick rolls his eyes. "I'll be fine. It'll just take a minute, right?" Not-a-nurse nods, watching me scoot closer to Nick's bedside.

"I'm not leaving."

"Uh, Max?"

"No, _Philip_ , I'm staying right here."

Not-a-nurse smiles a little. "I figured you'd say that." He opens the cabinet part of the cart, revealing an array of hypodermic needles and a large bottle with a skull and crossbones on it. He shakes the bottle vigorously before opening the top. The strong chemical smell reminds me of what the School used to clean up the _big_ messes. I gag. Some of the chemicals spill over the edge of the bottle, hitting the cart. The plastic immediately begins to smoke and warp. Okay, strong chemicals.

Not-a-nurse locks the hospital door.

"In fact, I was _hoping_ you'd say that."


	19. Disorderly Discharge

I rest a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Think you can walk yet?" He nods, his eyes locked on the threatening container.

"You won't be going anywhere." Not-a-nurse lifts the bottle, preparing to splatter its contents all over me. I plant my foot in the middle of his chest and kick with all my birdkid might. He hits the wall behind him and sinks to the floor. I leap out of the way as the bottle of chemicals flies in my direction. The container bursts, spewing the hazardous material everywhere. Not-a-nurse writhes away from the growing puddle of pungent liquid before it reaches him. I almost trip over his flailing limbs as I scoop up the clipboard on a hunch.

"Nick! We're leaving."

Oh, shoot, we're going to attract a lot of unwanted attention. Luckily, I spot a wheelchair folded up in the corner. When Nick gets on his feet, I push him down into it, avoiding his bad shoulder.

"I can w-Ow!" I remove his IVs with as much care as an exasperated parent pulling dozens of burrs from a toddler's hair. (Angel had a few bald spots for a while).

"Sorry." Except I'm saving your butt, so you can't complain. I drop the clipboard in his lap. "Take a look at this."

"My medical records?" He doesn't sound impressed. He flinches as I push him over the writhing not-a-nurse (yes, you read that correctly). We wheel down the hallway a little too quickly. It draws the attention of a woman in teddy bear scrubs.

I lean down and hiss in Nick's ear, hoping it looks like I'm sharing an inside joke. "Pretend like you're injured."

"But I am—"

"Now pretend to laugh." He obliges with a depressingly fake chuckle. The nurse shakes her head that clearly expresses 'kids these days.' I give her a smile as I push Nick past. We arrive at the main hub of the fourth floor, where three long hallways intersect, without much interference.

My heart pounding, but far from out of breath, I push the elevator button repeatedly. "Come on, come on, come on you stupid tin death trap!" I like elevators about as much as I like being underground.

Nick's eyebrows furrow, flipping between two pages of the clipboard. "Wait a second. This is Eric. And that's the leader of the Reds. I recognize him from the fight." He looks up at me. "It's a hit list."

"Leaving so soon?" The elevator pings right as not-a-nurse rounds the corner, the back of his scrubs smoking slightly.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Phillip is allergic to death." Okay, not one of my best lines, but I have a lot more to think about right now than witty comebacks. For example, Nick tries to get out of his chair. If he gets up, it will raise more suspicion. No need to drag innocent bystanders into this mess. I rest my hands on either of Nick's shoulders and not-so-gently press him back into his seat. "I'm taking him home."

Not-a-nurse laughs. "We'll meet _Nicholas_ there." He turns to my wheelchair-bound friend as the elevator doors slide open. "3641 Creekside Road, right?" Nick stiffens. Not-a-nurse smirks. "You really think a shrubbery is enough to keep our eyes and ears out, boy?"

I don't give Nick much time to process it. I push his wheelchair into the elevator and press the ground floor button. When not-a-nurse tries to follow, I tackle him to the ground. His head cracks against the tile floor; I land on top of him with an audible 'oomph'. Nick starts to get out of his chair again, but I thrust my free foot out and kick him backwards. He and his chair ram into the far wall. I risk an apologetic glance as the doors shut. He doesn't look too happy.

Not-a-nurse uses the temporary distraction to roll. He straddles my stomach, pinning my arms to the floor on either side of me, (not that it's very effective, me being a mutant and him a weak human). Some acid drips off his coat and hits my forearm, where my scabs have healed to little more than thin red stripes. I hiss. Several heavy sets of footsteps approach. The hospital security. Frankly, I don't feel like fighting, and definitely not like fighting fair. I raise my knee and nail not-a-nurse where all men's greatest weakness lies. (No, not his ego). He collapses to the side and I slide to my feet.

The constant pain in my ribs reminds me of its presence a little too forcefully. My breath catches. The guards are almost on me, though, and I can't afford leaving Nick alone for more than a minute. For all I know, he never even made it to the first floor. So I steel myself and ram through the stairwell doors. I only make it down half a flight before the doors swing open again and two burly guys are chasing me. One of them calls for backup over his radio.

I take the steps two at a time, flying around the corner of flights of steps with the grace of a drunk squirrel navigating an iced-over tree. (Long story). As I pass the landing for the third floor, another guard bursts through the door. He's a little too close for comfort; his hand brushes the trailing hem of my jacket. In a panic, I fumble to zip the thing and keep it closer to my body. As I round the next corner, I stick out a leg to ricochet off the wall instead of slowing down to make the sharp turn.

If Gazzy were here, he would yell "Parkour!" and immediately start doing fancy flips down entire flights of steps. A small pang of homesickness shoots through me.

No, I'll find my family. Soon.

The doors on the first floor open and I watch as guards, accompanied by a doctor or two, pour into the stairwell. Looks like I'll be making my exit early, then. I skip the last three steps and burst through the doors leading to the second floor, headed for what I hope I correctly remember as a second stairway in the middle of the hospital. Surely the hospital doesn't have enough guards to cover _two_ stairwells. If they do, they need to reevaluate their security; not-a-nurse didn't seem to have any trouble getting in. I dodge the errant hospital worker in my sprint down yet another white tiled hallway. See, if the building had an alarm system, people would know they should stop me. As it is, they think I'm some escaped patient from the psych ward or something.

I make it through another set of double doors to the front of the hospital. I was almost right when I though there was a stairwell here; one lies at either end of the long balcony that wraps around the massive lobby and reception desk. Below, I catch sight of a mop of unruly black hair waiting by the door. A sigh of relief. At least Nick got down safely. And he's still in the wheelchair.

But even as I head toward the steps closest to the exit, a figure approaches Nick from behind. Fluorescent lights glint off a poorly-concealed syringe. Shoot.

"Nick!" He turns towards my voice. Idiot. "Behind you!" He doesn't even look; with a push of his wheels, he sends the chair flying backwards into his would-be attacker. Thatta boy.

The sound of the double doors slamming into their walls announce the arrival of my posse. Oops. Gotta run. I begin sprinting back towards the steps, only to meet another group of guards, whitecoats—I mean, "doctors"—and nurses.

How many guards does one hospital need?

A clang from below catches my attention. Nick rolls out of his overturned wheelchair before the janitor lunges at him with the syringe. Even from up here I can hear Nick's grunt as he hauls himself shakily to his feet. He's suffering from a stab wound, a re-located shoulder, and a week's bedrest; I'm not sure I can trust him to take on a baddie by himself.

But when I turn back around, I'm surrounded.

I hug my ribs protectively and back into the balcony's railing. My erratic heartbeat has nothing to do with my recent exercise. A doctor steps forward, holding out a gloved hand in peace. "It's okay. We aren't here to hurt you."

I scan the small crowd gathered around me for wolfish features. But everybody looks pretty much like you'd expect from people who have been on their feet for the last eleven hours. So, no goons. But then there's a flash, and my attention is drawn towards somebody toward the back of the crowd, pointing the camera of his cell phone in my direction. Even a normal human being—much less an escaped mutant freak-would find that suspicious and more than a little creepy.

My hand closes around the railing behind me. Twenty-five feet to the floor. I could land twenty-five without damage. Of course, it's tile over concrete; I could also shatter my legs. And either way, my ribs. . . I wince just thinking about it. But they _just_ became tolerable!

Behind me, there's a crash. I glance down in time to see Nick roll from his toppled wheelchair, the janitor a millisecond from jabbing him with the syringe. A few people watch with fascination, but no one moves to help. They, like the nurses and doctors, aren't questioning the authority of 'the man'. Probably don't have a single adventurous cell in them. Never stuck a fork in an outlet to see if the cartoons were accurate, never snuck out of the house for a three-day camping trip next to a waterfall, never went through the rebellious teenager stage.

I roll my weight into the balls of my feet and tighten my grip on the railing.

The kind doctor guesses what I'm thinking. He takes a step towards me. "Woah, there." I look past the doctor's furrowed brow. The guy with the camera phone has slipped away, probably to send evidence to his contact. The doctor scoots closer. Too close for comfort. "Let me help you. You're safe here."

Somebody downstairs screams.

I make my decision quickly. "No, I'm not." I topple from the balcony.

No wings allowed, I free fall for a few agonizing seconds. A floor of hard rock and bloody bodies flashes past my vision, and I panic at the resurgence of my nightmare. I'm going to hit the ground and go _splat_ and there's nothing I can do about it. But then my feet make connection with the floor, and I tumble head-over-heels a few times to absorb as much shock as possible. My momentum helps me finish on my feet.

The man who had attacked Nick is sprawled on the floor, looking much like I should have after my literal leap of faith. The syringe sticks out of his bicep. I should probably feel remorse, but he was about to do the same to Nick without batting an eye.

We aren't in the clear, yet. The guards and doctors are on their way down the steps. Nick grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of the front doors. "Come on."

I tug right back. "No, this way." I lead him through a small side exit and pause to wedge a chair under the doorknob. It works in movies, right? The second door in the small hallway leads outside, to a loading bay of sorts.

The car is exactly where I left it, strategically parked between the ranges of two security cameras. Nobody would have us on tape, er, DVD. What are those kids using these days? Nick mumbles as he adjusts his seat to accommodate his long legs. I roll my eyes as I take my seat behind the steering wheel.

I twist the keys in the ignition. Nothing. "What?!"

"You have to—"

"I know how to drive, Nick!" A lie, but he doesn't need to know that. Nevertheless, his hand closes over mine on the keys and swivels it forward, back, and forward again with a little jiggle at the end. The car grumbles before sputtering out. As the car dies, there are shouts from inside. I glance in the rearview mirror, squinting through the light of the rapidly-falling sun. The door to outside isn't moving, but it will soon. "We'll have to run."

Nick slaps his palms on the dashboard of the old car. "Dang it, Dory, pull yourself together!"

With that, the car suddenly revs up. I can't hide my smile as I slam the gas pedal into the floor, speeding out of the parking lot just as security pours through the front doors.

I rush through a red light or two to put as much distance between me and the white-washed walls of the last week as possible. When I turn onto a road devoid of too much traffic and slow to under sixty miles per hour, Nick relaxes his grip on the handle thing above his door and takes his foot off the brake he wishes were on his side. We ride in silence for a moment, absorbing what just happened.

"Why did you name the car Dory?" I ask, watching Nick from the corner of my eye.

He half smiles. "She speaks whale." As if responding to his statement, the car groans as I turn down another neighborhood street.

It takes a few false starts for Nick to spit his question out. "He knows where I live." Well, it comes out more as a statement than a question.

I can't help but correct him. " _They_ know where you live." Nick suddenly becomes very interested in the bullet holes marring the passenger door. I feel the need to continue to fill the silence. "With what I heard over several phone calls, Not-a-nurse has contacts. And I think there may have been more than one or two people planted in the hospital." I grimace. "I think they took pictures." Great, all I need is _more_ evidence of mutant freaks out in the world. I'm sure that won't put the Flock on the hit list of every mad scientist, bounty hunter, freak show host, and poacher in the vicinity of Earth's atmosphere. (Sarcasm).

Nick nods his head, and I get the feeling most of my words went in one ear and out the other. I watch him stare out the windshield vacantly, leaning heavily against the passenger side door. I want to say more, but I realize that, if Nick is anything like Fang, (which he definitely is), he's comfortable with the silence. Needs it, even.

So I'm surprised when he's the one to break it. "I'm coming with you."

"What?" My foot taps the breaks, nearly causing the car behind us to crash. The man driving flips the bird as he passes. I don't pay him any attention. "Not a chance."

"It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

"It's too dangerous."

"Danger is my middle name."

I roll my eyes. "Nick—"

"No, don't say that. You need help." He cuts my protests off with a raised hand. "I don't know what it is, what's been eating you all this time. _Yet_. But I want to help you, because you've helped me. And. . . and if there are really people hunting me, it's better I've got someone to watch my back."

"I watch your back, you watch mine," I mutter under my breath.

"Exactly." Nick nods decisively.

I sigh. "No, Nick. I'm not risking it."

"If I come with you, and I get hurt, it wouldn't be your fault." I bite my lip, not wanting to think of going through another experience like the one that eventually landed Nick on the hospital nurses' "favorite patient" radar. "It would be my own fault." He waits until I look at him to continue. "It's my choice, Max."

I allow a second to pass before answering. "It's more than that."

His hands clench in his lap. "What? Your past? I can tell it's. . . screwed up." He must catch my flinch, because he softens his fist and continues with a softer voice. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

I take a deep breath, using my focus on the road as an excuse not to answer.

"Max." The gravity in Nick's voice makes me look at him. "You can tell me anything."

I want to. I really, desperately _need_ to share all of my fear, anger, and loneliness with somebody who might even be able to relate. I turn my eyes back to the road (much to the relief of the drivers in the other lanes of traffic). In that moment, I can almost pretend that Nick is Fang, silently reading every expression that crosses my face and understanding every bit of what I'm going through.

And as Nick searches me with sincerity in his swollen eyes, something clicks.

I lick my dry lips. "I can't." A shudder runs up my spine. "I. . . can't lose anybody else."

"Then take me with you."

I hate how small my voice sounds. "I can't."

"If you leave me here, I'll be dead within a week." His voice is stone cold, stating fact. And as much as I hate it, I can't argue with him. He smirks, understanding what I'm thinking by reading my face, knowing he's won the argument. The familiarity of his expression almost catches me by surprise.

Almost.

"Besides, you already promised you wouldn't leave me alone."

I knew that would come back to bite me in the butt. I clear my throat. "We need to ditch the car."

Nick raises an eyebrow at my not-so-smooth transition but nods anyway. "I think I know where. Take a right up here."


	20. Cheerful Chauffer

"What is this, a concert?" I huff at the long line of stopped traffic. Most of the cars are empty, except for a few with people still climbing out or gathering supplies from their trunks. I put our car into reverse to back away from the crowd—I _hate_ crowds—but hit something. When I look in the wing mirror (should I have been doing that _while_ I was driving?), I realize another vehicle has pulled in behind us, effectively cutting off my exit strategy. Its occupants glare at me through the windshield. I sink in my seat. "Nick, I don't know what you've gotten us into, but I don't think we're getting out of this traffic any time soon."

Nick crawls from the back seat dressed in a fresh change of clothes, hidden in a backpack by his mother before. . . well, you know. He flashes a smile at the family climbing from the car behind us. "I see you've charmed your way into the hearts of yet another family. Careful, Max, popularity is a double-edged sword. I should know."

My eye roll is interrupted when I catch sight of the posters a group of teens pull from the back of their truck. _#makewashingtonwhole_ and _LOVE ONE ANOTHER_. It feels like a stone drops into my stomach. "Nick—"

"It's a candlelight vigil. For my old school." He shrugs. "The news expected several thousand people to be here. It should be easy to slip through unnoticed, and we can leave the car. Nobody will find it until people leave, and that's not until sunrise."

I don't really feel like pushing my way past thousands of tear-streaked, emotional people, but I can't argue with his logic. I leave the keys in the ignition and slide from the car. "It's a better plan than mine."

"You had a plan?"

"Shut up." The joke feels out of place in the silence outside. We easily slip into the stream of people making their way up a hill, presumably towards the rubble left from the school. Nick lags behind a little when we reach the slope. Not surprising, with what he's been through these last few days. I fall back and pull his arm over my shoulder. He raises an eyebrow but admits defeat halfway up when we have to stop so he can catch his breath. After that, he leans on me pretty heavily, not that I mind. When we finally crest the hill, I slow down, taking in the scene below.

The news had it right. There have to be a thousand people hunched against the char-scented wind threatening to blow their candles out. Predictably, police line the outskirts of the crowd and guard the dusty remains of the school, all armed with radios and gun-shaped bulges. And every TV station in the city, as well as several from across the country, has shown up to catch video of the event. A few reporters pull people aside for interviews on camera. There's no way around the crowd; we'll have to go through to get anywhere. I swallow, realizing that if somebody from the School decides to take a break from evil for the next few minutes to watch the news, I'm no better off than a sitting duck, even with my larger wingspan and brain.

Nick must sense my discomfort. He squeezes my shoulders once before gently nudging me down the hill into the crowd. We angle ourselves in a way to avoid the worst of the cameras and cops, (Nick gives a wicked side-glare as we pass the police), around the bulk of the crowd but deep enough inside it that we don't stand out too much.

Except for the principal's voice, carrying over the speakers in the front, it's oddly quiet for such a large gathering of people. Unnerving, even.

Trying to get my mind off the thousands of potential life-threats surrounding me, I attempt a quiet conversation. "So, um, you said you had a friend that goes here? Chucky?"

The sides of Nick's mouth twitch up in a hint of a smile. "Yeah, Chuckles." We collectively scoot past a couple with a stroller. "We go way back."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like, potty-training-buddies 'way back', or we-share-a-long-and-convoluted-history-that-would-make-for-great-reality-television 'way back?'"

The small grin widens. "We used to skip school together. His dad owns this used car dealership, and a lot of the cars are crap, but we would learn how to fix them up, and take them for joy rides to the nearest amusement park."

"Don't they close while school's in?"

He smirks. "Never said they were open."

People step back to let Nick and me through without asking questions or sparing us a second glance. But there are just so _many_ of them; the longer I'm in the crowd, the further away the edge of it seems.

Wait a second.

I squint my eyes and focus on the furthest point I can see. It seems to spiral away from me. Which doesn't make a lot of since, because since when do hills move? When my feet begin to lag, Nick notices and shoots me a sideways look. I shake my head and keep walking. Er, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

Even with the crowd singing a sorrowful "Amazing Grace," my ears pick up the static of a radio. _"We've got a visual on the target."_ I plant my feet and take a dizzying three-sixty. _"South lawn, headed for the street."_ There! I recognize camera-man from the hospital immediately. My stomach flips, though whether from my predicament or this strange sickness, I don't know.

Nick's arm tightens around my shoulder. "Max? You okay?"

I brush off his worried gaze and respond in a low voice. "We've got company." Nick straightens to look around, but I pull him down to keep him from drawing too much attention. "Don't look, just move." He stares at me for a second before picking up his pace.

A single radio beep drifts from the man following us. I strain my ears to hear what he's saying. " _Tall kid, dark hair. Yeah, the chick's still with him. We can't do anything until they leave._ " A pause filled with the fourth verse of the song. " _No, do not engage. Too many people. Wait until they leave. Todd out._ " A string of answering beeps radiate from the outskirts of the crowd. I frown, remembering that the police have radios. Are they on this, too?

Even leaning mostly on Nick, my feet begin to drag through the grass. After another few seconds, nausea settles in. Nick, noticing my weight shift, slows down and frowns in my direction.

Before I have time to explain, pain cracks across my skull, from the back to the front. Without meaning to, I gasp.

Our escape halts. "Max?"

Nick's voice echoes and blends with the final verse of that dang song. A few people around us peer down with curiosity, and I realize that, somewhere between my headache and the acid swirling in my stomach, my butt has made contact with the ground. Nick crouches down next to me, laying a careful hand on my shoulder. His look says it all.

I grit my teeth. No, not here. Are you kidding me? A middle-aged woman leans over Nick. "Is everything okay? I have a phone, do I need to call an ambulance?"

That I manage to shake my head in protest without puking is a statement to my sense of self-preservation. I think Nick responds to the woman, but the blood pounding in my head drowns out whatever he says. I grip the sleeve of his shirt. "Go, Nick."

He looks like he's disgusted I would even suggest it. "No way. I'm not leaving you here by yourself."

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. "What do you plan on doing? _Carrying_ me through this crowd? You won't make it with your leg." I lean in closer so the curious onlookers can't hear the rest. "Besides, _I'm_ not the one they're after. I think the police are in on it. Your best bet is to go deeper and hope they lose track of you in the crowd."

When Nick opens his mouth to protest further, I fix my best leader-glare on him. "Nick, go." My eyes flick to the onlookers and back. "Find your friend. I'll be fine; it's not like I'm going any—" my thoughts, and, by extension, words, are cut off by a second, stronger wave of pain that shoots straight down my spine. I instinctively curl into a ball, clutching my pounding head in shaky hands. It's all I can do to keep my stomach acid in its natural habitat.

The hand on my shoulder tightens. I blink back the moisture in my eyes—no, I'm not crying, it's just a weird side effect of pain—only to notice a set of quickly-approaching shoes. Probably belonging to the camera guy from the hospital. I growl, pushing Nick away clumsily. " _Go. Now!_ "

With a final, reluctant look, he slips into the surrounding crowd.

I drop my head onto my knees, taking deep breaths and swallowing the bile trying to claw its way up my throat. The approaching shoes break through the thin ring of worried rubbernecks and stop a foot in front of me.

I thinly register the static of a radio, a man speaking into it. Someone brushes my hair back and I reflexively jerk out of reach. But the movement throws me off balance, the world spinning a mile a minute. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the damage is done. I fall to my side, jarring my sore ribs, before blacking out.

"We've got her."

 

**~xXx~**

 

"Sorry. 'Scuse me." Nick slid past another group of huddled teenagers, feeling their stares on his back as he continued his "search" for his "friend." When he had made it another few feet, he paused and risked a glance over his shoulder. His breath caught in his throat.

There were two cops hovering near where Max had fallen, talking to the woman who had witnessed the whole thing. The woman pointed towards where she had seen Nick disappear. One of the cops, followed by some random guy in a white baseball cap, took her direction in their pursuit.

Nick took a sharp left, squelching whatever guilt he felt at leaving Max alone and vulnerable back there. He wouldn't do her any good if he got captured.

With that thought fresh on his mind, he tensed when something grabbed his shoulder, dragging him backwards. He turned to face his attacker, only to pause, studying his face in the dim light. A slow smile. "Chuckles, man—" Whatever he was going to say was cut off when the heavy-set kid, a few inches shorter and at least a year younger than Nick wrapped him in a tight embrace. After the initial shock wore off, Nick returned the gesture, somewhat awkwardly due to the height difference. "Dude, it's good to see you."

Chuckles reluctantly pulled back in order to breath. "I heard about what happened. I thought. . ." he trailed off, brow furrowing. "Wait, what are you _doing_ here?"

Nick ran a hand through his hair and scanned the surrounding crowd for any threats. "It's a long story." Not finding anything immediately life-threatening, he faced his old friend again. "You said you know about the warehouse? I thought you got out."

Chuckles shrugged. "Dad's business isn't going good." At Nick's look, he crossed his arms. "And I'm not selling the big stuff anymore. I don't wanna kill anyone." The rest of the sentence hung in the air.

Nick fought down his disappointment. He would know as well as the younger boy what desperation was like. That's why they got along so well. "Have you heard anything else? About last week?"

Chuckles shook his head. "I don't know, man. All I heard is that you got busted up, but nobody saw you get out." He dropped his voice and leaned in. "Reno came over, looking for you. Said the gang's falling apart. Lost a bunch of guys last week." Nick nodded, ignoring the pain in his gut at the words. "Core members are gone, and the fringe is defecting."

At this, Nick startled. "Not to the Reds?"

Chuckles looked at him like he was crazy. "Didn't you hear? They found that one guy's body a couple'a days ago. The one who took over?"

Nick's face darkened. "Axel."

Chuckles nodded, oblivious to Nick's change in demeanor. "Yeah, some tourists found him out in the woods, near the river. Dead as a doornail."

"When was this?"

A lackadaisical shrug. "Uh, Wednesday?"

Nick did some mental math. "He couldn't have been killed during our fight; the warehouse is too far away from the river."

"I don't know, man. One of ours coulda got him, tracked him down and stuff. Anyways, word has it that the Reds are in the same shape we are."

Nick frowned; something bothering him. "If our people aren't joining the Reds, where are they going?" He had learned long ago that quitting a gang was the equivalent of going cold turkey; people would usually find somewhere else to go instead of leaving the lifestyle behind. It's why he worked so hard to keep Chuck away, even going so far as to quit school so the kid wouldn't be influenced by him.

Chuckles was staring intently over Nick's shoulder. "Um, Nick, is there somebody following you?" Nick's eyes widened a fraction before Chuckles grabbed his arm and tugged him through the crowd.

"No, Chuck, I gotta go back. Max—"

Chuckles snorted. "The chick everybody's been talking about? You dragged your _girlfriend_ into this mess?"

"She's not my girlfriend!"

"That's not what Reno said."

"Reno's an idiot," Nick muttered under his breath.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

Chuckles led him to a cluster of teenagers that Nick recognized as fellow gang members. "Hey, Sully, look who I found." One of the kids—definitely older—turned around, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline when he caught sight of Nick. Chuckles interrupted whatever he was about to say. "We're being followed."

The other boy's face went grim. He nodded once, got the attention of the other teens in the group. Without a word, one of them passed his hoodie. Nick nodded his thanks and passed his own jacket to the donor. He zipped the new clothing over his shirt, settling the hood over his head to cover his hair and eyes. It wouldn't look too suspicious; it was a little cold outside. Somebody shoved a lit candle into his hands. When a girl tried to offer him her car keys, he refused. She rolled her eyes and shoved them in his pocket. "Black truck with a pink dinosaur hanging from the rearview mirror. I parked three blocks that way, so you should be able to get out." She pointed back in the direction Nick had come from.

"Um, thanks."

"Hey, we're just glad you're okay," one of the teens jerked his chin in the direction Nick and Chuckles came from. "You got a tail?" Nick nodded.

The girl who gave him her car keys smacked her gum. "Let us take care of them. You get outta here."

Nick only made it one step before Chuckles grabbed his sleeve. "Nick?"

Nick threw his friend a rueful smile, realizing this may be the last time he ever saw his friend. "Take care of yourself, Chuck." Then, spotting the wave in the crowd caused by those pursuing him, he jogged away.

Nick looped back around the crowd, ducking his face under his hood and holding his lit candle in front of him to blend in with the rest of the mourning people. He made it back to where he had left Max, but she wasn't there anymore. Of course. He couldn't risk giving himself away by asking anybody present where she had been taken; he'd have to look for her outside the perimeter of the crowd. He slunk to the edge and hovered there, facing the stage like the rest of the people surrounding him, but his eyes tracked the movements of the police. They were more alert than cops usually were in this town, which was going to make it difficult to slip away undetected.

Not a minute passed before Nick heard a shout behind him. Startled, he glanced over his shoulder to be met with Chuckles, riding the shoulders of white-ballcap-guy without the man's consent. Nick smirked. He had taught Chuck that move. The other teens were distracting the two cops, successfully drawing the attention of the officers along the perimeter into the crowd. One even left his post, walking right past Nick in his haste to break up the scuffle.

Seeing his opening, Nick fast-walked to the edge and glided easily past the badges and TV cameras. Once out, he ducked behind a parked car and leaned against the door, letting out a long breath. His leg and stomach were throbbing dully, frequently enough to hinder his movements. After another moment, he felt composed enough to continue his search. He let the candle fall from his grip as he wandered further from the crowd.

There's no way Max got up and walked away by herself. Last time this happened, she was out cold for a full day. No, the cops must've picked her up. Nick followed the soft glow of flashing police lights. When he got closer, he realized the light didn't belong to a cruiser, but an ambulance. He ducked behind a nearby car when a pair of cops strolled up to the back, pushing a gurney with a light-haired girl strapped into it.

Max. He shuffled around to the other side of the car he was hiding behind and risked peeking around the corner. Another cop stood next to his cruiser, speaking into a radio. Three cops. Not impossible, but not ideal. He jumped when the ambulance doors were slammed open. There were no paramedics in the back. His eyes narrowed. Actually, he didn't see anybody that looked like a medical professional. If they got Max into that ambulance, he didn't think he would be getting her back out.

There was no time to lose.

He took a running start to ram into the cop closest to him. The cop collapsed, his head bouncing off the cruiser behind him, and went still. Nick directed his attention to the two cops loading Max into the back of the ambulance. One of them pulled out his radio. "He's here!" Nick rushed him, knocking the radio from his hands. The cop didn't have time to take another breath before Nick had him flat on his face, out cold.

The third cop paused, eyes bouncing between Max and Nick. Nick noticed with grim satisfaction that this must be the only unarmed cop in the neighborhood. He wouldn't be able to load Max into the ambulance without help, and Nick wasn't about to give it to him. Nick took one step towards the cop, and the man took off in the opposite direction.

Smirking, Nick approached the gurney. His face fell when he saw Max's pallor. Glancing at the unconscious men around him, he wondered if it would be easier to push the gurney than carry Max. But, surveying the haphazardly-parked cars, he decided he could maneuver better without the medical equipment.

He made quick work of the straps holding Max down, noting the indentations they left in her skin after he'd removed them. The cops really didn't want to risk her getting away if she woke up. No sooner had he lifted Max off the gurney—realizing that she was even lighter than the last time he had dragged her through his house—then shouts warned him of approaching backup. The cop's radio call had been received, apparently. Carrying Max bridal-style, Nick sprint down the parking lot, looking for an escape vehicle.

His leg almost gave out after the first hundred feet. No way he'd be able to run three blocks to that one girl's car. His odds were better finding one already running. Surely. . . there! Some blonde teenager was climbing out of his car, unaware of the excitement coming his way. Nick could hear the engine rumbling from here. Perfect.

He put on another burst of speed just as the first shot rang out. A bullet bounced off the pavement next to Nick's feet. The gangly car owner whipped his head around at the noise. When he saw Nick, the girl in his arms, and the armed people chasing him, he ducked. Another bullet whizzed past Nick's ear, narrowly missing Max's head, cradled on his shoulder. He skid to a stop next to the running car, confused at first as to where the boy went.

Then he spotted a strawberry blonde head in the driver's seat, not a second away from pulling out of the parking lot. Even while the wheels began to roll, Nick pulled the back door open and lunged inside, thankful that the teen didn't think to lock his doors while armed police officers chased some crazy kid. Carefully shielding Max from the gunfire, Nick reached out and pulled the door shut before it gouged the sides of the next car they passed.

It wasn't until the door shut that the driver seemed to realize he had some stowaways. "Hey! What are you doing?" A gunshot shattered the back passenger window. "My car!"

Nick wasn't in the mood. "Just drive!"

Another bullet lodged itself into the driver's door. The teen didn't need any more encouragement. The car squealed into motion, the tires spinning for a hot second before finding purchase on the asphalt.

Nick looked out the back window at the receding forms of the cops. He saw the flash of a camera. They would have to change vehicles again soon. When they were out of range of the guns, he allowed himself to breathe. The sound was mirrored by the driver, whose white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel relaxed minutely. Nick pulled Max's head into his lap and absently ran his hand through her hair, noticing how clammy her skin felt.

"That was close." Nick startled at the driver's speaking. He expected the first words of the teen to be something along the lines of 'Get out of my car!' or 'Please don't shoot me!'. But the kid's voice sounded almost friendly. Bordering on excited. "You do that often? Why were those cops chasing you?"

Nick blinked. The driver was studying him curiously in the rearview mirror.

"I'm James, by the way."

After a moment of deliberation, Nick answered. "Nick."

"Nice to meet'cha, Nick. Mind telling me where we're going?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, the story shifts direction, as I never actually meant to dwell so long on Nick's convoluted gang life. Max will be returning to her original mission of finding her Flock. (Don't worry, other stuff definitely happens!)


	21. Her Last Letter

_Max?_

_. . ._

_. . ._

A loud expletive pops my bubble of unconsciousness.

Instincts kicking in, I work hard to pull myself from the comfortable numbness. Fang wouldn't use a word like that in front of the kids (at least not when I'm within hearing distance), so either they are out of earshot (which is bad), or Fang is so caught up in danger of some kind that he's forgotten to filter his language (which is doubly bad).

The two voices come from my left, but after a second of consideration it occurs to me that the tone of the conversation is much calmer that I would expect during an Eraser attack. I allow myself to relax, hoping the quiet rhythm of the voices will lull me back to sleep; my head is killing me, and despite being unconscious for who-knows-how-long, I feel like my limbs have been dipped in lead and I've been forced to trudge through a Jello marsh with said lead-limbs for hours.

Mmm. Jello.

I think I've almost drifted off on that thought when a snippet of conversation rudely interrupts my peace.

"Yeah, give me ten minutes, a set of pliers, and a tube of toothpaste."

The second the words register, my eyes snap open, and my glare is accompanied by my Most-Leaderly, Don't-You-Dare-Even- _Think_ -About-Doing-What-I-Think-You-Are-Trying-To-Do voice. And there's only one, _one_ time I need to use that.

"No bombs." I wince. Okay, my DYDETADWITYATTD voice is a lot more intimidating when it doesn't come out like an ant with laryngitis screaming in the wind. Even so, it's enough to get their attention. Groggily, I brace my hands in the dirt and push myself into an upright position, hoping I look more graceful doing it than I feel.

Fang—I blink and remind myself that this is _Nick_ , not _Fang_ (I thought I was getting better at this?)-and Iggy sit on the other side of a pile of glowing embers. I clear my throat. "No explosives, Ig." Then my eyes widen. _Iggy?_

The pale teen misses my surprise. His arms crossed in front of his chest, he recites, "Technically, it's an incendiary device. It doesn't 'explode' as much as—"

"—catch things on fire." I finish for him, still a little dazed. Then I shake my head in an attempt to clear up my foggy mind. "How—when. . . "

Nick finally speaks up. "Max, this is James. James, Max." The lanky teen throws a cheeky wave in my direction. My brow furrows. Nick sends me a look that clearly communicates that I have all of the tact of a sociopath in group counseling before he continues. "James helped us escape the police after you passed out."

Of course, I'm still paranoid, and surely there aren't doppelgängers for _two_ members of the Flock living in the same city at the same time, so I skip civility and rush straight into ultimate-skepticism mode. I narrow my eyes in James' direction (temporarily forgetting that my glare has no effect on those who can't see it). In my most threatening voice, I growl, "Why?"

James glances at Nick, who's gone still at the tone of my voice. "Um, to cross 'drive the get-away vehicle' off my bucket list?" James is obviously nervous, but his voice carries an Iggy incredulity, a special brand that implies I may as well have asked him why he breathes air or why. . .

I rock to my feet to emphasize my point. "You _drove_?!" I face Nick. "You let him drive?!"

"He was already in the car!" Nick stands up to meet my gaze.

I turn to James. "Why were you _driving_?"

Now it's James' turn to stand. He addresses Nick instead of me. "Is she always like this?"

Nick smirks. "Yep."

James nods knowingly. "You should sit down again." Nick obliges with an eye roll. Lots of those being dealt tonight.

Finally, James turns to me. "And as curious as I am as to how you came about as a law-upholding citizen who doesn't let perfectly-capable fourteen-year-olds drive, I'm a lot more interested in how you know the ingredients in my incendiary devices."

My breath catches. He's looking _right_ at me. Like, not "scarily-close-for-a-blind-birdkid" accurate, but "perfectly-capable fourteen-year-old" accurate. I hold up my thumb, index, and middle finger. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

He has to squint in the thin light provided by the dying embers. "Um, are you counting the thumb as a finger? Because technically you're holding up three digits, but because the thumb has one less knuckle…"

I tune out. Totally. An Eraser could swoop down from the trees and haul me to the nearest armored helicopter and I wouldn't even blink. He can _see_.

But of course he can, I mean, he doesn't have wings, (not that I've asked), and Iggy wasn't _born_ blind, so why should his creepy doppelganger be?

But still. I study James' eyes, memorizing the clearness in them. There's no clouding over the pupil or irises. They're a sharp blue, the same color I remember peering at me from the cage across the aisle before the whitecoats and their disastrous experiment.

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. Darn it, I've already met my quota for sappy emotions for the next couple of years, not mentioning this last week. Instead, I settle for, "You can see."

Judging by his blink, James was expecting me to talk about how I knew about the bombs, but that could only be truly explained with a monologue about watching Iggy learning to accept his loss of sight by obsessing over small machines and eventually explosives, joking the whole time with a very young Gazzy who totally idolized him. James, on the other hand: "Duh."

"Why would you think he couldn't see?" Nick raises an eyebrow ever so slightly.

I just shake my head, crossing my arms across my body almost protectively. "Long story."

But I think Nick picks up on my hints that I don't trust James enough to talk about anything in front of him, because the next thing that he says is, "Max, I know you're paranoid, and as far as I can tell you have every right to be, but you've got to trust me. You can trust James." I eye James suspiciously. He waves again. "After all, if he were going to turn us in, we would have been gone _ages_ ago."

What a nice transition into another pressing matter. I join Nick on the ground, signaling that, for now, at least, I'll give James the benefit of a doubt. This had better be worth it. "How long was I out this time?"

Nick pauses, seeming to weigh the consequences of telling me. With a sigh, he finally answers, "Another day."

I groan. Another day lost. At this rate, I'll be whacking Eraser butt with my walker before I find my Flock.

James speaks up, then. "Dude, you didn't tell me that this has happened before."

More than a little ticked, because James isn't speaking to me even though _I'm right here_ and because Nick has been speaking to him, apparently about me, I fire. "And why should he tell you that?"

James crosses his arms. "Look, I don't know why you hate me so much, but I'm just trying to help." He flicks his bangs back and huffs, (an old habit of Iggy's), but his next words aren't as sharp. "I'm in the medical track at my high school. I _know_ stuff, first aid, anatomy, CPR. Plus, my dad's a paramedic, so I kind of pick some stuff up, you know?" No, I don't, because the closest thing to a dad I ever had was Jeb, and the only knowledge he could give us directly related to the reasons he _needed_ to be our surrogate father. Then he disappeared.

I clench my fists. Cool down, Max. Not helping.

"He redressed my wounds," Nick offers, pulling up the hem of his shirt to reveal fresh white bandages across his abdomen. Sure, I could have done it—I've found myself playing doctor plenty of times after, say, Fang tried to fly at top speed through a forest, or Nudge got so angry about who was kicked off _America's Next Top Model_ that she dug her dinner fork into her thigh without realizing it—but I have to admit that the Flock usually heals quickly, whether proper medical attention has been paid or not. That said, James has maybe done a better job than I could've. He's done it as well as Iggy.

Shoot, it's hard to be suspicious when they literally _feel_ like family.

So I drop my paranoid-mutant-freak act. Just for a little bit. "This is the second time I've, uh, fainted." Gosh, I sound like such a wimp saying it out loud.

James sits and steeples his fingers ironically. "Interesting. Continue."

I roll my eyes but humor him. If this is a birdkid thing, it's not like he can fix anything. If it's not, well, it doesn't hurt to try, right? "The first attack, I just kinda got dizzy and blacked out for the day. This last one was different, though."

"Different how?"

I shrug. "Nausea, headache. Nothing terrible."

"She was limping," Nick cuts in. "And then she had to sit down because her headache kept her from moving." 'And she was totally helpless as a girl, so I attempted to console her, but her girlish fears were too much and she fainted quite completely.' Jerk.

"And this was at the vigil?" James asks.

Nick nods, his mouth a grim line. "When we climbed into your car, I had just rescued her from an ambulance swarmed with cops." I open my mouth to argue that I don't _need_ 'rescuing', but the thought of what would have happened if Nick hadn't come back shuts me up. "She's been unconscious until now."

"Hm." James narrows his eyes dramatically and leans into his steepled hands, staring broodily into the embers.

When it doesn't look like he'll give us an answer, I stand up and take a good look around. Lots of trees, the same build as those surrounding the city. Judging by the moon, it's somewhere around two in the morning. Or eleven. I don't know, Fang was always the best at that stuff. "Where are we, anyways?"

Nick gives me the abridged story. "We're in the forest a few hours outside the city." I nod. Figured as much. "James drove, but we had to stop somewhere for tonight because we kept running into police barricades."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and make the conclusion, "So we're on the run." A thought occurs to me. I snap my head up. "Do they know what we look like? We could just-"

Nick shakes his head grimly. "They have our descriptions. And pictures from the hospital have been popping up on the news." My eyes flit to James. "Yeah, they saw him, too. We're not safe."

"Why are they after you, anyways?" James has finally broken from his thinking pose, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "No offense, but you don't strike me as the murdering type."

Nick ducks his head. I consider the truth: either A) Nick's on a hit list because of his gang affiliations, B) the School is playing a wicked game of cat-and-mouse, or C) neither, and we're both screwed. I settle for the easy answer. "We don't actually-"

"I'm the leader of the Shades." Welp, so much for that idea. But Fang never did master the art of subtlety. James is shocked into silence. "The Boss, my aunt. . . disappeared, and the mantel was passed to me. You can see how that ended up." He gestures to his leg and abdomen, a mirthless grin on his face.

James gives a low whistle. After a second, he turns to me. "What about you? Secret agent? International art thief?"

I smirk, realizing James thinks I'm a bigger target than Nick. Judging by the scowl on Nick's face, he realizes it, too. "I'm running from vampires." Best to stick to the classics.

James' look of awe only lasts a second before it falls flat. "You're bluffing."

"Duh." I cross my arms.

He waits for me to continue, but when it's made clear I won't spill my life story, he sighs. "Fine, if you don't want to take part in the sharing circle, so be it. We're perfectly happy without you. Right, Scarface?"

Nick's eyes narrow at the nickname. James smiles evilly.

Just like old times.

I offer to take first watch, and when both boys refuse to let me stay up, I demand it. So that's how I end up leaning against a tree, staring into the darkness all night, listening to the soft sounds of breathing (well, James snores a little).

I can't admit it's because I'm avoiding a nightmare. I can almost swear they're getting worse. More realistic.

When I was unconscious, I could have sworn I heard someone calling my name. It sounded so real.

It sounded just like Angel.

**~xXx~**

"Let's go, slow pokes. We're burning daylight." I bounce on the balls of my feet, surveying the steep rise before me. If I remember correctly, the cabin is a little over a mile away, but this is the last hill to climb before reaching it.

"I don't see why we couldn't just _drive_ here? It would be so much faster." James huffs into view from around a particularly thick copse of trees. He still has bedhead (yes, that is what it's called even when your only bed is the forest floor), and he yawns every couple of steps. His feet drag behind him dramatically. All in all, you'd think he'd been walking for days, but it's only been a couple of hours.

"Tire tracks. And you really think that dump you call a car would make it over that river we crossed a mile back?" Nick follows, looking a little pale but nimbly picking his way over the uneven ground. Definitely more acclimated to the woodsy, outdoorsy life than James. Still, his gait is uneven because of his bad leg. I've tried to make him rest at times, even offered to carry him once, but he outright refused on both counts. He says he wants to get the cabin as quickly as possible. He wants to see the last place his pseudo-mother lived before she died.

James grumbles something along the lines of, "It wasn't a dump until you decided to jump into it."

"Come on, only a little further." I wave them on without looking, instead planning the best route up the hill without hitting any slippery spots. When they finally reach me, panting slightly, I point up the incline. "Up the hill, down the other side, then only a mile or so left. We should reach the cabin by lunch time." Three stomachs chorus their approval.

James groans as we begin our ascent. His knees are red and bleeding; his cargo shorts do nothing to protect his legs from the thorns and sharp twigs we've been marching through all morning. I wince in sympathy. No wonder the next words out of his mouth are, "Remind me again why I'm doing this."

I grab a small tree and help Nick climb up a patch of loose soil. I do the same for James. Huh. I'm not usually so winded. "Nick's on somebody's hit list" (breath), "and the only lead we have is a letter in the cabin," (breath), "that Bess lived in while hiding from the assassins." Okay, I don't actually know that they're assassins, but it's as good a guess as any, right?

"Right. And?!" James loses his balance, sliding about a couple of feet down the hill before I catch him.

Grunting, I push James up. "For you, it's either us or the cops with questionable loyalties."

Nick chooses then to chime in. "Or you could take your chances by yourself."

I can't see it, but I know James is scowling. "I can take care of myself. At school—"

"This is _way_ different than studying physicology. You wouldn't last an hour. Do you even know the first rule to surviving in the wild?"

"It's _physiology_. And, yes, I do."

"Let me guess, you read it in a book somewhere?"

"Dad and I went camping once. To birdwatch." We could both tell Nick was about to respond, so James pressed onwards. "I bet you couldn't tell duck from a hawk if clawed into your shoulders and carried you away."

Nick casts an amused sideways glance at me. I ignore it, so he continues the banter: "Nerd."

"Dropout."

"Hey, I could make more money dealing in a week than you could playing doctor for a month."

"Oh yeah? Because I could surgically remove your test—"

"Boys, boys, you're both pretty." I roll my eyes. Been doing that a lot lately. I like it better when Fang is the silent, brooding type. This bickering is going to drive me crazy.

But I can't help the smile ghosting across my face.

The next mile passes, my appeal for peace ignored. I'm as thankful to reach the cabin as the boys, and that's saying something, considering they're both pesky humans who haven't _really_ hiked in the wilderness before. Let alone _lived_ in it for weeks on end.

Nick slows as we approach the ramshackle building. The three of us stop no more than a hundred feet away. I watch Nick take the sight in. His shoulders tighten as his gaze travels across the only window not boarded up, the gaping door, the overturned furniture loitering in the porch's outline.

James shuffles his feet nervously, craning his neck to search the surrounding trees for. . . something insidious. I can't help doing the same. My scanning the environment reveals nothing worse than an ant colony and a few patches of poison ivy. Still. Nick takes a deep breath and a cautious step towards the building. I wince, expecting it to explode.

It doesn't.

Still, I stop Nick, pushing him behind me. At his protests, I only gesture to his injured leg. He lets me go ahead of him, but lets me know – makes _sure_ I know - he's not happy about it. A quick glance at James confirms he's not planning on following me any time soon.

I pick my way over the porch's frame carefully. Before entering, I examine the un-boarded window. Broken from the inside out. I swallow and clench my fists.

The door creaks ominously as I enter, despite my not having to touch it. It and the open broken window let in enough light for me to make out what occupies the room. It looks like a tornado hit. Light glints off broken glass, from what I don't know. There are still shards of chair scattered on the floor. Bess' suitcase had been overturned in the center of the room, leaving piles of damp clothes all over. Cans spill out of the lone cabinet in the corner by the camp stove, and from what I can tell, most have been opened.

I back out of the shack slowly. "Coast is clear, but somebody else has been here."

James kicks absently at a sapling. "Obviously." I would take it more personally if it didn't sound like he's just processing it himself.

Nick limps up next to me and silently assesses the interior of the cabin. "Somebody was looking for something." A statement, cold and removed. He makes as if to enter.

"I don't know if you should go in there."

He ignores me, pausing only briefly at the doorway before stepping inside. I look over at James, who raises his hands defensively. "Hey, I don't like ghosts. I'll, uh, keep watch." I nod and follow Nick inside.

He stands at the far wall, brushing his hand along the seam between the wall and ceiling. I clear my throat. "So, you don't think they found it?"

Nick shakes his head. When he makes a full circuit around the room, he drops to his knees and starts again, this time feeling along the edge of the floor. Since I don't know what I'm looking for, I start to repack the suitcase in the middle of the room. If we're going to spend the night here—considering I don't have any better ideas—may as well make it feel less ominous.

I've just finished zipping the stuffed bag when Nick exhales, "This is it."

"What?"

Nick doesn't look up. "Hand me your knife." I scoot over and carefully hand the blade to him, mindful of the dried blood on the handle. Nick's blood. The surgeon that removed it put the thing in an evidence bag. I guess my "airtight" explanation of a car crash was a _little_ suspicious. Anyways, the first second I could, I reclaimed it.

Nick slides the flat blade through the floor/wall seam until he seems to find resistance. Then, turning the blade, he starts to saw through the adjacent floor board. After a few tense seconds, there's a loud _crack_ as the wood gives way under his pressure, revealing a small hole beneath the wall. Nick reaches down to grab something but immediately pulls back with a gasp.

"Your leg?" He nods, scooting backwards to give me room to maneuver my own arm into the dirt ditch. I roll my sleeves back and sink my arm shoulder-deep into the clay tunnel before my fingers lock around what feels like a hard plastic edge.

As I drag out the bundle of blue tarp, James joins us, mumbling something about fire ants and rubbing at the small red dots on his hands indignantly. He helps Nick and me carefully unfold the bundle in the middle of the room and sort through what's inside: a sizeable stack of twenty-dollar bills, another year's supply of canned food, more clothing (none of which would fit anybody in our party), a gun (which I promptly set aside—out of sight, out of mind), and a single, crisp white envelope with "Nick" scrawled across the front in dark black ink, slightly smudged.

Nick traces his name on the front. It has to be the letter his mom was talking about, from his aunt. It was probably the last thing Bess wrote.

I rest a hand on Nick's shoulder. "You don't have to open it right now." When Jeb failed to return to the E-shaped house, the Flock and I left his half-filled mug of cold coffee on his desk until the water had evaporated and the dregs had molded. It's hard to move the last thing you _know_ they touched.

Nick lets out a deep breath. "No." With that, he rips the letter open. James and I watch his eyes scan the page, lingering on her initials near the bottom. When he finishes, he just passes the letter to me and starts counting the money left.

I squat closer to James so he can read over my shoulder, sparing Nick from hearing it all out loud.

_Nick,_

_If you're reading this, it's because I'm dead. Well, I figured this is what would happen. So, suck it up. You haven't let anything drag you down before, and I expect you to stay strong now._

_But you deserve an explanation. There's been a bounty on my head for months now; it was only a matter of time before somebody got to me anyways. The fight over the warehouse was the perfect opportunity to disappear._

_Nick, the Shades were_ not _responsible for the death of Bennett, the Reds' boss. I did some investigating. It was an outside job, an organization bigger than anything I've seen before. They're the ones that sent me on the run. For the last year, they've been conquering_ _smaller systems like our gang all across the US - maybe further, I haven't finished my research - consolidating power._

 _I have raised you to be the leader of this gang, and I expect you to follow through with your heritage. Keep the gang together, no matter what. The people in the lower ranks are violent sociopaths that_ need _to be led. If you don't lead them, They will. It will make Them stronger._

_They will target you. Be careful. But nothing is more important than the family. Your girlfriend reminded me of that._

_I ~~love~~ This suicide mission is worth it._

_-B_

We end up packing up the extra supplies and finding a different place to crash for the night.


	22. Trek and Truth

I am drifting somewhere between awake and asleep when something wet slides down my cheek. I startle into a sitting position, raising my fists, ready to punch whatever Eraser had the _audacity_ to drool over me. My eyes don't open to a wolfish maul, though. Oh. The next fat raindrop lands audibly on my tight fist. It's followed by another on my arm, then my boot and _ah_ in my ear _man that's cold_. I glare up at the heavens, only to narrowly dodge a hit in the eye. Mother Nature, you sadistic bast—

"Are you awake?" I lower my gaze from the dark (and _dripping_ ) treetops to the slightly darker shape on the ground next to me. Nick's propped up against a rock in an effort to lessen the pain he'll be feeling in his abdomen tomorrow. His bangs are wet, and it takes me a moment to realize it's from sweat and not the sprinkling of rain. The night air may be cool, but nightmares can do wonders with your internal body temperature. I self-consciously wipe the moisture off my own brow.

Nick's staring intently in my direction, but obviously can't see well in this dark. I clear my throat. "Over here, Nick." The rain builds to a steady drizzle, punctuated by the large pearls dropped from the leaves above us. Nick somewhat blindly reaches out, and I reciprocate with a little more dignity. His stance visibly relaxes at the contact, but tremors still run up his arms from the unscheduled, ice-cold shower.

James knocks his head against the tree behind him as he nods awake. He volunteered to take first watch after my offer to watch-all night-was shot down. Guess he slept anyways.

When I'm sure I have their attention, I decide to make a decision. "We're going to have to find some better shelter." This is answered by two groans. It had taken an hour to find a place to crash for the night that didn't scream "look for me here," "I dare you not to freeze overnight," or "Nick's dead aunt will haunt you in your sleep." Finding a place that is dry, too? In this weather?

Piece of cake. "Follow me."

James grumbles. "Too tired. Just let me sleep in the rain."

"You and Nick will freeze."

"And you'll absorb heat from the atmosphere?" Nick asks with a raised eyebrow.

I brush off the question with a hand gesture neither of them can see. "I'm warm-blooded."

"Uh-huh. So are we. We're all—" James interrupts himself with a long yawn. "—Mammals." I tip my head to the side and shrug non-committedly. Nick's grip tightens in my hand, and I use it to help hoist him to his feet. The sky is lit by a long bright flash. James opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by an earth-rumbling roll of thunder. He slides to his feet on his own.

Nick frowns, kicking absently at a sapling. "It's too dark to safely walk anywhere." He reaches around until he finds his backpack, then pulls a heavy flashlight out of the side pocket. After some fumbling it emits a steady beam of light that illuminates the forest floor. Nick sighs like he was afraid it wouldn't work. "There. Bess is always prepared." The end of his sentence is clipped, like he realized too late the verb tense he's using is wrong.

Neither James nor I bother to correct him.

There's another rip of lightening, this time close enough I can feel the electricity in the air. James jumps at the heart-stopping boom of thunder that follows. As the thunder's echo fades, I clap my hands together like the cheery summer camp workers in the movies Nudge and Angel like to watch. "Either of you hiked in the dark before?" They both shake their heads.

I frown, adding 'Survival 101' to my mental checklist of skills to teach. (In case you're interested, this list also includes Dumpster Diving, Harmonica-Playing, and, most importantly, How to Follow Max without Hesitation.) "The thing is, that light is going to attract, um, predators. And if there's anybody following us on foot, we may as well carry around foghorns to make sure they don't miss us."

The flashlight is suddenly flicked off. "I didn't think of that."

"Dude! I can't see a thing!"

"I'm rolling my eyes, Ig-Give it a minute. Your eyes will adjust." I wince at my mistake. James is not blind, Max. Stupid muscle memory. Anyways, I roll my shoulders back and turn in a random direction with just enough confidence to look like I know what I'm doing. "Okay, guys, follow—" There's a loud thump behind me. I pivot around to see what the noise is about, only to be met with a single lanky silhouette. Slightly panicked, I ask, "Nick?"

"Down here." The beam of light flickers back on, this time from the forest floor. Nick uses a tree to pull himself back up. (Note: all that walking must've made his bad leg stiff.) He brushes dirt off his soaked pants and mutters, "Tripped over a tree root," as explanation. He rubs the bandages over his stomach regretfully.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. They obviously can't see well enough to get anywhere in this light, and judging by Nick's pallor - he looks like someone just showed him his hospital bill - he can't afford another fall like that.

The decision I'm about to make will probably get us killed. I sigh. "Use the flashlight."

"But you just said—"

"Don't argue with me. Just do it." (Ugh, I need to start 'Maximum Academy' classes soon.) Nick, accustomed to my leader voice by now, just rolls his eyes and adjusts his grip on the flashlight. James gapes. I have a sudden vision of Erasers picking us off one by one, so I quickly tack on, "But my condition is that we hold hands." Neither of them respond, so I hold out my open hand towards James.

James blinks hard. "Wait. You're serious?"

"Dead serious. We don't know who we're up against and I'm not about to underestimate them. I don't want to risk it."

Something in my tone must convince them, because we link up, James in the middle and Nick in the rear, pointing the flashlight ahead of all of us. I take the lead.

I'm not afraid of Them, whoever that is. I'm not afraid of the police who may be working for Them. I'm not even afraid of the wildlife. (Actually, I wouldn't mind a snack). But it's high time I run into an Eraser. Or rather, an Eraser runs into me. Like, this is a personal record for man-wolf evasion, and I'm not even actively trying. As the three of us trudge through the thickening mud, I scan the forest ahead of us for any signs of life. Not that I would know what to do if I saw one.

It's not long before the cold rain soaks through my jacket. I shudder when it starts to reach my wings. The boys can't be faring any better; James' fingers are already cold in my hand. I squeeze them a little tighter.

James must take the movement as some sort of cue, because he starts filling the un-awkward silence with awkward questions. "So, you do this a lot?"

"James, be quiet. And watch out for that—" Nick and I pull him back over his feet, "—stump." He lapses back into our focused quietness.

I shiver again when an icy drop worms its way under my jacket and slides down the length of my back. I don't know why, but I'm _cold_. I don't get cold; being a birdkid means having a metabolism so high that my body produces enough heat to keep me warm at a frigid ten thousand feet above the ground. James and Nick aren't even shivering, so I shouldn't have small bumps sprouting up my arms and down my legs.

Something is wrong.

Nah. I'm just paranoid.

"Why do you keep doing that?" James asks from behind me. The sudden sound makes me jump. (Only a _tiny_ bit, though).

Nick is obviously as confused as I am. "Doing what?"

" _That!_ " James exclaims, nodding his head just enough for me to know that he's trying to gesture but not enough for me to know where.

"Um, sorry." It comes out more as a question than a statement, but James seems to accept it.

When we start working our way through a particularly dense thicket of bushes, I do a three-sixty. James must have seen it, because he starts his unnecessary commentary again. "You're really paranoid."

I grit my teeth, reminding myself that he has never had to survive in the wild before. Much less while being hunted. "Being paranoid comes in handy when you're on the run. Trust me."

"So you've been on the run before?" I don't give him an answer this time, instead letting the silence drag on.

Nick's breath catches. A quick glance confirms it's just his leg, probably still sore from yesterday. Before I can think of anything to say to him, James starts talking again. "You're going to drive me crazy. Is it Morse Code? Because you suck at it."

This time, I stop to address James (partially to give Nick a breather). "Listen, I _rock_ Morse Code." Fang and I learned it when we were little to communicate past bedtime. We spent hours knocking conversation into the bedroom wall dividing us. Until Iggy caught on and started eavesdropping, that is. "What are _you_ talking about?"

James shakes our linked hands violently. "This! You keep tapping my hand!" He demonstrates, rapping two quick beats on the back of my hand with his thumb and three on my palm with his index finger. "I don't get it!"

I pause before responding, my fingers automatically tensing in James' grip. Subconsciously. . . I must have. . . Dang it. Those taps are how we communicate directions to Iggy when we're trying to be quiet, or flying, or really any other time it's inconvenient or dangerous to talk. It was dark, and we were being quiet, and we were creeping through the woods, and I guess. . .

"I just had a song running through my head. Sorry."

James frowns. "Well. . . then. . . You have terrible rhythm."

Nick chuckles. "I could have told you that."

I shrug, hoping to get moving again soon. (Was that rustling to our left?). "Can't argue with that." I start to walk again, but there's resistance behind me.

Nick hasn't moved. "You agreed to that way too easily."

I tug again to get us moving. Neither boy budges. "No, I just said I can't argue with you. It's not the same thing as agreeing."

Nick shakes his head. "The day you back down from an argument is the day the world ends."

I purse my lips. James looks back and forth between us. "Is there something going on between you two that I don't know about?"

We reply with a simultaneous "No." James waits a moment, then nods knowingly. I may yank his hand a bit harder than necessary when we start moving again.

Another shiver runs down my back, this time accompanied by a tingle at the back of my neck. I slow our progress to pull another three-sixty. I find nothing, but it doesn't ease the twist in my gut. When I start moving again, it's in a different direction, and faster than before.

James stumbles on something behind me. "Jeesh, calm down. Nobody besides us is stupid enough to be out here in this weather." As if to prove his point, another crack of lightening follows his statement.

I respond when the thunder finishes rumbling. "You don't know that." My voice comes out lower and more threatening than I intended. It's a natural response to thinking of Erasers jumping out from behind trees to drag their claws through your throat.

"Max, is everything okay?" Nick sounds out of breath, reminding me that he's injured.

I force myself to slow down, but don't stop my almost spastic search of our surroundings. "Do you want the truth or the easy answer?"

"Max—"

"I'm kidding. Just. . . we need to find somewhere to rest, okay? I don't want you guys to freeze."

James inhales deeply. "It's not even that cold out here."

I start to educate him on basic wilderness survival – it doesn't have to be _that_ cold – when a long howl stops my heart.

It looks like the boys heard it, too. We stop, listening for a repeat. We're rewarded a minute later, and I can _swear_ it's closer this time. James asks, "What was that?"

Nick huffs. "It was just a wo—" Another howl, and this time I'm _sure_ it's closing in on us.

Adrenaline floods my system. Erasers. It has to be. "Run!"

To their credit, they follow my order without hesitation. Not that either of them have much of a choice, seeing as I've broken into a mutant sprint and we're all still holding hands.

The funny thing about imminent death is that it really snaps everything else into perspective. Take now, for instance:

"Max? Why the he—"

"Oh gosh, oh gosh, I think I'm gonna hurl!"

"Slow down!"

Forcing two whiney teens through a cardio workout? Not a problem.

The rain has saturated the ground, turning the dirt under our feet into mud. Every time I try to pivot into a new direction, I narrowly avoid sliding into a tree, rock face, or other undesirable shock absorber.

Traversing nature's slip-and-slide? No biggie.

A familiar burn starts eating away my breaths. They become labored and erratic, nothing like the carefully controlled inhales and exhales I use when I exercise. It's not long before I'm panting like a thirsty dog.

Wait. This is new.

I do a quick mental calculation, using my last known running speed but taking into account visibility, weight, terrain, and adrenaline. No, still wrong. I shouldn't be tired already; I could run miles on the treadmill at the School before getting short-winded. This whole sleep-deprivation thing must really be taking its toll.

Or maybe it's something else. My brow furrows.

I wonder if my headaches have anything to do with it?

My train of thought is derailed when my feet take a violent detour. I hadn't even realized we were running along a slope, but there's nothing like an uncontrolled tumble downhill to snap you back into reality. Luckily, James and Nick's combined drag creates enough friction that our decent is stopped long before we reach the river at the bottom.

"Nick, turn the flashlight back on."

"I can't." This is quickly followed by the _clack-clack-plop_ of something small and metallic finishing its downhill journey.

"I, uh, dropped it."

James groans. "Dude—"

"Hey, it's not my fault! _Max_ is the one who started sprinting through the woods like a. . . a fairy or something."

That was so bad it genuinely makes me worried. A quick once-over confirms the boys are soaked, frozen, and somewhat confused, but otherwise unharmed. That is, except for Nick's leg. It hasn't started bleeding again, but when he tries to stand on his own it buckles under his weight. I bite my lip, searching our surroundings for any sign of the Erasers. "We can't run much further."

"No duh. I can't see a thing."

"Thanks for your input, Iggy. Fang—" Dang it, I did it again. "Nick, do you think you can handle climbing a tree?"

"What? Why?"

"Wait, who's Iggy?"

I ignore James, hoping he'll drop the subject. "Wolves can't climb trees." Obviously. Well, Erasers may be able to, but if it comes down to it I can draw them away while the boys hide.

I offer a hand to Nick to help him up. He takes it gratefully and gingerly tests his bad leg. "That's what this is about? The wolves?"

James climbs to his feet like an old man. "What kind of name is 'Iggy' anyways?"

I speak in a low tone so that only Nick can hear me. "Wolves are the least of our worries."

"And who is Fang?" comes another quip from James.

I huff in exasperation, my well of patience leaking faster than the sky above us. "Do you ever stop talking? Good grief, you're worse than Nudge!"

I must have raised my voice, because the last word seems to ring in the silence.

Silence?

So we lost our tail?

Nick is the first to speak again. "Max, you need to tell us what's going on." James, wisely, keeps his trap shut.

"I. . ." I swallow my panic down with my words. I can't tell them anything. It's too risky.

But it's riskier to drag them around without them knowing what they're getting into.

I nod, needing the (invisible) physical action to cement my decision. "Okay."

"Wait, you're going to tell us? Really?"

"Don't push it, Jamie." The new nickname shuts him up. I allow myself a small smile, taking his hand.

"Here. This—" I tap his palm once, "—means to turn right. This—" I tap twice this time, "—means to turn left. And this—" I tap the back of his hand, "—means you need to pick up your feet, because there's an obstacle in your way. The number of times I tap should give you an idea of how high to climb."

"I _knew_ it meant something!"

"Whatever. Let's find some shelter."

"And then you'll tell us?" Nick gently prompts. When I look back, he's giving me the same serious face I'm used to getting from Fang. The weight on my shoulders lightens a little.

"Yeah, then I'll tell you. Everything."

This time when I pull, they follow, albeit slowly and clumsily. It takes a while for James to figure out how the tapping system works, especially when it comes to climbing over rocks and fallen trees. But it's not until I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him preemptively that it dawns on him.

"Hey! You can see!"

Oh, shoot. "Not really. I'm just as blind as you."

Nick had been quiet, lost in thought or something. But he snorts at my comment. "Honestly, Max, how long do you think you can keep that lie up?"

I shrug. "Old habits die hard. And," I add, "people are more gullible than you'd think."

"So, forever?" James only sounds half-joking.

My reply throws the rest of the travelling into a darker mood. "Until the day I die."

 

**~xXx~**

 

It's an hour before we find someplace dry to sit. It's another half hour before I manage to coax a flame out of a pile of damp kindling. All of this is done in silence, nobody willing to push me to say anything further.

Well, good.

I watch trails of water travel down the bottom of James' shoes and drip onto the backpack underneath. (Basic care for a twisted ankle. He should be fine by tomorrow.) He's already half-asleep, leaning against the rock wall like it's a couch cushion.

Nick, on the other hand, is too busy _staring at me_ to be lulled to sleep. And as much as I'd like to say it's because I have something stuck in my teeth, the look he's sending my way reminds me of the one I give the kids when I'm trying to lecture and they keep talking over me: I can wait, but you'd better not make me.

Dang it.

"You ready?" To his credit, Nick is at least trying to be patient. But I can hear the excitement thrumming behind the words, and to be honest I can't blame him. It's human nature to be curious.

I lift my eyes from the crackling fire I've been pretending to study but still can't find it in myself to meet Nick's gaze. Deep breath. "Yeah."

Awkward silence.

James, eyes still half-lidded, prompts, "It's easier if you just spit it out."

My first instinct is to retort with something like 'Yeah, you would know,' but everything I'm about to do is against my first instincts and I should at least be consistent. "The truth is. . ." I trail off again, unable to find my words.

"I don't even know where to start." It's not like I've ever had to explain this to anybody before. How much detail should I go into? Should I tell them about my elevated heart rate? The reason I hate snakes? The incredibly unhealthy meal the Flock shared when we celebrated the one-year anniversary of our escape?

Nick shuffles over and untangles my fingers from my hair. I hadn't realized I was fidgeting. Nick shifts his stare to the fire, too, lost in thought. Then, "What's your name?"

A small smile. "It's Max. Short for, ah, Maximum. Maximum Ride." James snickers, but a quick kick from Nick sobers him up real fast. The exchange is so familiar I find myself talking before I can even think of what I'm saying.

"Ride, like Sally Ride, the first American woman in space? She's kind of my idol. I was absolutely obsessed with her when we first escaped the School—"

"School?"

" _The_ School. It's, um, where I grew up."

Nick squeezes my hand. "Where the you-know-whats came from?"

I rub my shoulder self-consciously with my free hand, fingers brushing damp feathers. "Yeah."

James, looking much more alert than he had five minutes ago, asks, "What you-know-whats? What do you know that I don't?" The last part aimed at Nick, of course.

Before I can think of more reasons not to, I stretch my wings through the slits in my clothes. The muscles protest as they unfold for the first time in days. The cave isn't wide enough for me to unfurl all the way, but I still give a few practice flaps to loosen them up. I let my eyes drift shut as the fire starts to warm and dry my cold and damp feathers.

"Dude. Don't." That was Nick. My eyes snap open to zoom in on James' fingers, no more than two inches from my brown primary feathers. Both wings instinctually flinch back.

James seems to get the message, though, and scoots away from me, hands held up in apology. "Sorry! I didn't mean—well, I wanted to—aw shoot, you can't just spring something like that on me, okay?" There's a moment where the only sound is James catching his breath. He settles for staring out my outstretched wings in awe. "It's just so hard to believe."

I frown. "Tell me about it." Without further fanfare, my extra appendages recede into their biological hidey-hole. Well, that sounds gross. But, I mean, it kind of is, if you think about it.

Anyways.

Nick seems to choose his words carefully. "Max, how did this happen?"

I meet Nick's eyes for a second. Despite sitting right next to me, he didn't touch my wings once. When I start to explain, though, I look back at the fire. It's easier than seeing people's reactions. "The School was—is—what we call the lab where we grew up. Whitecoats—er, scientists—experimented with human embryos and animal DNA to make, well, me."

I pull my knees into my chest and rest my chin on top of them. "My DNA was spliced with a bird's. I was the first one to make it past infancy." My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands. "There were a few others avian hybrids who made it, too. Angel and the Gasman—we usually call him Gazzy—are the only actual siblings. They're the youngest, then there's Nudge, Iggy—he's blind—and, um," I glance at Nick, "Fang."

I take a deep breath to force the lump in my throat down. If I don't get through this now, I won't ever. Still, I choose not to elaborate on the Flock. Nobody asks me to, thankfully.

"Anyways, the six of us escaped with the help of one of the whitecoats, and we've been living on the run ever since." There, short and sweet. Are we done now?

"You said you were the first avian hybrid to live. What about—"

"The vampires?" I drop my knees back down and lean against the wall behind me. "We call them Erasers. They're lupine hybrids."

"Wolves."

"Yeah. They do the dirty work for the School."

James innocently asks, "Like, cleaning the bathrooms?"

My stomach lurches at the memories of what I've witnessed. The blood rushes out of my face. "We don't talk about it," I whisper.

Another few minutes pass, the boys digesting information and I already regretting what I've said: too much. Then James takes a few false starts to finally ask, "You said six of you escaped. Where are they?"

It feels like somebody's hit me in the gut. I look out the opening of our cave, into the wet darkness outside, to hide the water building in my eyes.

"I wish I knew."


	23. Risky Restaurant

It continues to rain for the next day and through the next night. By the time the sun goes down, I'm soaked through and _freezing_. I swear, my nose went numb ages ago. Must be getting to that time of the year. Or maybe my lack of sleep is just killing me.

Either way, it's essential that I find shelter before I freeze to death. Sometime after wandering through a dark forest, I find myself at the edge of a community. The layout reminds me of something I've seen before, but I can't quite place it. There are houses all over, mostly looking the same except for the species of bush in the front yards. All of them have brightly-lit windows. Shadows move behind the curtains, and I can smell good food and evergreens. It smells like Christmas.

Christmas already? I must've lost track of time at some point.

A shiver runs down my spine. I blow warm air into my numb hands and begin looking for a place to crash. There's only one house on the block that doesn't have any lights on. There's a car parked on the street in front of it, but it could easily belong to a neighbor. Judging by the lack of snow underneath it, it hasn't been moved for a while, either.

When did it snow? Ah, no wonder I'm so cold.

It doesn't look like anybody's home, but I can hear the heater kick in from where I stand across the street. It's warm, and, heck, it would be nice to sleep on a mattress again. I decide to break in.

The back porch, coated in ice and fallen leaves, is slippery. I don't look forward to kneeling to pick the lock. Luckily for me, the door swings open with little more than a squeak.

Weird, but I'm not going to complain.

I step inside, into darkness. I try the light switch, but it seems like the electricity is out. No matter, I can see in the dark.

The back door enters into a kitchen. The fridge has crayon drawings of kids with wings. All of the cupboards are stocked with dusty cans of food. Heh. Preparing for the apocalypse? I'd hate to leave all this food uneaten, so I pop open a can of ravioli and eat it cold with a fork I find.

I pause, glancing at the stove. On it is a half-filled mug filled with molded coffee, steaming in the cold. It sits on an unwashed plate covered in what looks like spaghetti sauce. The shadows in the room suddenly seem to grow a little darker.

The kitchen is creeping me out, so I decide to explore the rest of the house instead. The next room I walk through is the living room. I don't risk trying the television, because the light may attract predators. But I take a seat on the couch, avoiding the left side because it's where Angel spilled that milk once and now that spot permanently smells spoiled.

While scraping the last bits of sauce from the bottom of my can, I get another chill. There's a pile of old shoes by the doorway, some small enough to belong to kids. Several picture frames hang from the walls, but they all lie askew and empty. The house creaks.

The heater must've turned off, because when I exhale, my breath fogs.

I notice another hallway to my left, and naturally I have to explore it. Unfortunately, it's empty but for a stairway to the upper floor. I can't find anything wrong with it at first, but something about it seems almost. . . sinister, I guess. The air gets colder as I back away.

_Max. Please._

Angel?

I carefully approach the stairs again and test my weight on the bottom step, unsure where the voice is coming from but certain that I need to know. Immediately, another shudder runs up my spine, followed by the ominous click of a switch upstairs. A single, bare bulb hanging from the upstairs ceiling flickers to life.

I can't go up there. Something in my gut is telling – no, _screaming_ – for me to leave. My heart starts beating faster than it should be able to.

 _Max_.

This time I'm sure it's up there. Ignoring my instincts, I take the steps two at a time. The dark, sticky feeling in my gut gets worse with each stride.

When I reach the top my eyes widen and I almost tumble back down the steps at the sight. Instead, I let out a-

A loud scream rips me from my nightmare moments before it's over. Before I even have my bearings, I'm crouching by Nick, trying to muffle the yell that's echoing in the alcove and no doubt through the entire forest. He's not even awake.

"Nick!" I half-whisper, carefully shaking him with the hand that isn't clamped over his mouth. "Wake up!" I look up to scan the outside for a potential threat.

Suddenly, Nick swipes my hand off of his mouth and holds it in a white-knuckle grip. I grit my teeth against the pain. He still isn't awake. "Nick, snap out of it. Wake up."

After another second he stops yelling and his opens his eyes **.** I let some of my tension drain, but he's still panting, and sweat is running down his forehead. Not good.

"Where are you hurt?" I look at the rain-soaked bandages around his stomach and leg and subtly pull on my encased wrist. "Oh, gosh, it's your leg, isn't it? I knew I should have checked on it before—"

"M'okay."

His voice is too soft, his grip getting weaker. I easily wriggle my hand back into my custody.

"—we went to sleep. It's probably infected. What do you do for infection? None of us have ever had one before because we heal so quickly—"

"Max, I'm fine."

"—we should take your bandages off and see what it looks like first." I begin to untie the knot around his leg, not looking up from my fumbling fingers.

Nick hisses, rising onto his elbows. Long fingers rest on my shoulder. I finally glance up to see both James and Nick watching me with a curious gaze.

It takes a moment for it to click.

"Oh."

James returns to his seat on the floor and blinks bleary eyes. I carefully rewrap the bandage I'd almost ripped from Nick's gaping wound. He grimaces, not raising his eyes from the dirt floor of our alcove. "You want to talk about it?" The familiar phrase rolls off my tongue easily; I've heard it enough recently from him, I may as well return the favor.

He rolls his eyes. "What is there to talk about? It was just a nightmare."

I purse my lips, studying his face for any sign he's lying to me, because my guts telling me he's holding something back. I don't find one, but he's proven to be a good liar and my instincts are rarely wrong. Misguided, sure, but not ever wrong, especially when it comes to my Flock. (Er, whatever). I finish tying off the knot at his leg, my fingers probably lingering a little longer than necessary as I mull something over in my head.

"Was it related to-"

Nick snaps his leg out of my reach. "I don't want to talk about it." He casually wraps his arms around to hug his leg to his chest, defending both of his wounds.

I would say my guess is correct. Being held hostage is a pretty traumatic experience, and it was only a matter of time before Nick's brain starting leaking bad memories into his good dreams. But my only options are to force him to talk or let it go, and we don't have the time to deal with Nick's stubbornness right now. The sun's already up, and we're burning daylight. So I simply respond, "Welcome to the club. Need a hand?"

He pats away my proffered hand, signaling that he needs a minute to regain his bearings. I get that, so I let him be.

When I turn around, it's to find James testing his weight on his twisted ankle. There are dark bags under his eyes, and he's paler than usual.

"You don't look so good."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'm rolling my eyes, Ig—dang it. Sorry, James."

"Whatever." His full weight on his ankle, he takes a few experimental steps, clinging to the wall like he expects his leg to give out.

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Yes? I think so." Happy with his ankle, he bends to pick up the remaining backpack.

"No, here. Let me take it."

James tightens his grip on the backpack, frowning. "Won't it hurt your wings?"

A little startled at the reminder of last night's conversation, it takes me a second to find words. "No. They, uh, tuck in. I'm the only one not getting over a recent injury, so I should be the one to carry the extra weight. Plus, I've got super-strength."

James' eyes get a fraction wider. "Any chance you've got heat vision?"

I just stare at him. "No. Not last I knew. Why?"

James shrugs, sliding the heavy pack over to me. I fiddle with the zipper for a few seconds, mulling it over, before tacking on, "James?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Don't talk about my. . . my wings too much. You never know who's listening."

"We're in the middle of nowhere," he deadpans.

"Actually," Nick butts in, "I think I recognize this place." He turns from the cave opening to me, his tone heavy as he says, "It's only a couple of miles from the warehouse."

My breath catches. A couple of miles from the warehouse? I bring up a mental map of my flight from Bess' cabin to the bunker. "East or west of it?"

"Southeast."

I close my eyes and lean heavily against the rock wall behind me. "We've been going in circles." We had to have been going the wrong direction all night; it will take another day to make up for ground we've lost. How are we supposed to get outside town if I lead them straight into it?

And what happened to my sense of direction?

Ugh. It's not sleep I need, it's multivitamins. Multivitamins and coffee.

I straighten up, pull Nick to his feet without a lot of warning, and hoist the backpack over one shoulder. "Well, guys, we'd better get a move on."

They follow me outside the mouth of the alcove, but hesitantly. I brush their wariness off as grogginess and ask Nick, "Which way?"

Nick frowns. "Where are we going?"

"As far away as possible."

Nick nods grimly, but James' mouth drops open at the statement. "Woah, woah, woah. I didn't sign up for a cross-country hike-a-thon."

I give him a look. "Do you have a better idea? Because the way I see it, Nick's got people after him, I've got people after me, and you're guilty by association. Heading back into town is suicide."

He blanches. "You don't think they'd actually—"

I face him fully, doing my best to keep my tone even. "James, I don't think you're taking this seriously enough." Before I continue, I take a deep breath. "If you want to go back home, then fine. Go. But Nick and I don't have one to go back to, and I'm betting that by now you don't either."

"My parents—"

"Are better off not knowing where you are." I try to soften my tone when I see his face fall. "Trust me, James. I've lived most of my life doing this, and it sucks." A mirthless smirk. "But it's how I've survived, and I can help you stay alive, too, if you come with me."

I never thought I'd see the day that I asked an outsider to come with me—Nick doesn't count because he _insisted_ \- but I guess there's a first for everything.

James' shoulders sag, but another minute and he rolls them back straight. "Okay." A deep breath. "But how far are we going, exactly? I haven't updated my passport since, like, ever."

I huff through my nose. "We'll figure that out when we're out of range." I pivot on my heel to head out, then pause thoughtfully. "I hear Mexico's nice this time of year."

At James' face, I have to bite back a laugh.

"Which way is out?" I ask Nick.

"That," he gestures, "is the fastest way out of town. But are we avoiding major highways?" I nod. Backroads are definitely safer, and who's to say the police aren't still blocking all the major roads out of here?

Nick readjusts his position to slightly more to the south. "This way, then. We should be out of town by supper tonight."

I smile at the prospect. "Great."

What I don't say is that I'm planning on helping Nick and James find a safe place—even if I have to personally fly them to Hawaii—and leaving to find my family. If not both at the same time.

**~xXx~**

"I'm so hungry I could eat a. . . a horse."

"You already said that."

"Oh, so you _are_ listening."

A huff. "Max, make him shut up. He's giving me a headache."

A groan. "Max, when can we get food?"

I look to the heavens in my exasperation. If there's one thing I haven't missed while traveling on my own, it's the kids' whining. The only phrase Nick and James haven't covered is—

"Are we there yet?" they ask simultaneously.

Finally, a question I can answer:"No." I shift the pack on my shoulders in the silence that follows.

Ah, silence.

Silence?

When I turn around, Nick and James are wearing matching mischievous grins. "What?"

Nick pretends to check a non-existent watch. "Four hours. Longer than I expected."

James nods pseudo-solemnly. "I concur. She has more stamina than I thought." A thoughtful pause. "Or she's going deaf."

I roll my eyes to hide the tension in my shoulders. Their words echo a whitecoat's too closely for my comfort. "So you were testing my ability to. . . what? Ignore you?"

James drops his airs. "Yeah, but we're also hungry."

I shift the backpack on my shoulders. "Nick? You, too?"

Reluctantly, he nods. "We skipped supper and breakfast. We should eat something. It's not healthy."

But we aren't out of the woods yet, literally or metaphorically. Stopping now will only make it harder for us to escape. The best thing we can do is truck through it until we're a safe distance away. I open my mouth to say as much, but my own stomach – triggered by thinking of food - growls. I scowl at it. Traitor.

Nick just smirks, but James feels the need to comment. "So where are we gonna stop? We've got enough cash to eat wherever we want."

I continue walking, hoping the conversation will distract the boys from their achy feet and stomachs. "We aren't going to spend money on food until it's absolutely necessary."

"What else would we spend it on?"

I shrug. "Odds and ends." Well, we've gotten caught shoplifting before, but luckily it was only Angel and luckily we were able to pay in retrospect without being reported. And sometimes we'd pay for a hotel, but more often the cash went towards bribing other people into silence. You can never be too careful.

"Where are we going to get food?" James asks. "A soup kitchen?"

Nick answers for me. "A soup kitchen wouldn't be safe. Too public."

"Then where. . .?"

Ah, and here's the kicker. "Once we find a place to hunker down for the night, we can search for something to eat. And we'd be able to set up a fire to cook it."

"You don't mean we have to kill something?"

"Unless you want it wriggling out of the fire, yes."

Nick sounds pensive – but definitely more comfortable with my proposal than James is - when he asks, "There's not much big game around here. What do you have in mind?"

I wave a hand nonchalantly. "Squirrel, opossum. Rabbit has a nice texture. Whatever we can find."

"Or we could eat there." I turn abruptly to look where James is pointing. It's downhill from us, far enough away it probably just looks like a blob that smells like food to him. To me, it looks like a run-down trailer, but it's clear from the blinking neon sign that the barbecue roasting in the smokehouse is for public consumption. There aren't even that many cars parked in the grassy patch next to it. The problem?

"It's too close to the road."

"But it's not even a main road! It has, like, a lane and a half!" Even as James says it, a car races down the middle of the pocked asphalt at speeds that can't be legal.

"I don't know. . . "

"Come on, Max." Nick chimes in. "I've seen places like this before. It's a tiny restaurant that serves the same old people every day. What would they have to be suspicious of?"

"Three muddy, bloody teenagers asking for a quick meal and no questions?"

I at least get a snort for that from James, but Nick presses on. "If anything happens, we could bust out the back door and sprint into the woods before anybody could maneuver their car into that lot."

I bite my lip, considering it. Now that I can _smell_ the food, it's lot harder to resist.

"Please, Max? Real food? Air conditioning?" James pleads.

No. No way. If I'm gonna get caught by Them or Erasers or whoever, it's not going to be because of air conditioning, no matter how many muggy mosquito swarms I have to deal with otherwise.

But then Nick flashes me a toothy grin, one of the kind I wish I could coax out of Fang more often, and I realize I've lost the battle.

"Okay, but if either of you get the beans you're spending the night at least a hundred yards away from the camp."

This is received with cheers, and the three of us move faster to get to the restaurant than we've been moving all day. I try to convince myself the food will be enough to motivate us to keep up the pace.

I take careful stock of our surroundings as we approach. No new cars come around the road, which is good. The cars in the parking lot all have license plates from the area, which goes with Nick's theory. There's not a chimney on the trailer, but the smokehouse looks like it would provide good coverage from the windows, if we do end up having to run for it.

The greying lady that greets us at the door hardly bats and eye at our appearance. "Oh, you three chose a bad day to go hiking. It was so muddy this morning I had to push my car out of my driveway."

She ushers us inside. The entire interior of the trailer has been gutted to make room for the six tables and surrounding chairs. The lady sits us at the one closest to the kitchen – and furthest from the door, I note – and hands us all pieces of soiled paper that can hardly be called menus.

"I'll be right back with some water for y'uns." She disappears through the kitchen door.

The second she's gone, I prop my menu on the table so I can observe the other occupants of the restaurant without being too obvious. There's a man sitting alone in the corner closest to us, gripping a mug of coffee and rifling through his backpack. My eyes narrow on him, ready to dodge a throwing knife or camera flash, but he just pulls out a cigarette and lights it. After he takes his first inhale, his eye catches mine. I tense again, but he only gives a curt nod and flicks his paper back open, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Satisfied he's not an immediate threat, I continue my scoping.

To our left, on the opposite corner of the smoker, two elderly women twitter at each other over hardly-touched plates of barbecue. I wonder briefly how they would be able to digest it, anyways. Their conversation, from what I gather, seems to revolve around some kid named Eddy, who used to work here, and his failed courting of one of their nieces. Yikes. Neither of them spare the three of us a glance.

The last occupants of the restaurant, not including whoever's in the kitchen, are the most threatening. The four men are old but not elderly, and their skin looks like leather. They occupy the furthest table from us, probably placed there to offset how much noise they make. There are a few spots left at their table, too. Are they expecting more people? I scan their belongings, trying to place them. They each have a light backpack with them, but it's the hunting knives strapped to each of their thighs that put me on edge.

I kick Nick's foot under the table. James looks up. Oops. I try again, and this time manage to get both of their attention. Without saying anything, I raise my eyebrows and flick my eyes in the direction of the filled table. They both have the grace to glance subtly. James just raises an eyebrow in question, probably because he can't see the knives from his angle. Nick, though, nods minutely. He shifts his chair around closer to mine so he can watch them without having to crane his neck.

The lady comes back out with glasses and a giant pitcher of water. "There you go, kids. You must be parched." Having poured the water for each of us, she pulls a notepad from her apron and stands with her pencil ready. "Now, what can I get you?" She looks at me first.

Oh, shoot. In my haste to make sure we weren't walking into an ambush, I forgot to look at the menu. "Um, _Nathan_?"

Nick takes my cue and orders first, distracting the waitress long enough I can slip into the backpack on the floor by my feet and slide Bess' knife into a more convenient position. While James orders, I kick the backpack until it rests on the floor between Nick and me. I can tell he's accepted his position as back-up defense when his jaw tightens imperceptibly.

"And for you, ma'am?" I almost jump, forgetting that I was supposed to be choosing my meal.

So I smile it off and shrug with one shoulder. "I'll have what he's having," I smile, leaning my head in Nick's direction. I think I heard James mention something about cabbage. Ew. Folding up my menu and handing it to the waitress, I continue, "Actually, I'll have two of what he's having."

The waitress raises her eyebrows. "Are you sure, hon? The sandwiches are pretty big."

I force another smile onto my face. "I'm a growing girl." And my stomach growls for emphasis.

The waitress winks at me. "I know how that is. Got a daughter of my own." She takes the proffered menus and snaps her notebook shut. "I'll be right back with your food. Holler if you need anything!"

"Thank you, ma'am," James smiles at her as she disappears into the kitchen again. At the looks Nick and I are giving him, James defends himself. "You two could use some lessons in social grace."

I snort. "All you have to do is lie through your teeth. It's not that hard."

James looks honestly confused. "Why would you have to lie?"

"Because everybody lies," Nick mumbles. I nod in agreement, reaching down to touch the handle of the knife in my pocket and in the backpack, just to reassure myself they're there, while taking a careful sip of water. It doesn't taste poisoned, but you never know.

James' eyes track my movement. "This may surprise you, but not everybody is out to get you."

"Uh-huh," I hum, making sure to lay the skepticism on thick enough you could slice it.

"No, really," James presses. His tone catches my attention, and I look up from studying the glass of water. "There are genuinely good people in the world; people who just want to help."

The words instantly bring back memories of Jeb, and my heart constricts. "There are too many bad people in the world to drop my guard, James. If I don't. . . I don't want to—I _can't_ —start trusting people, because the second I do someone or something is going to come." James opens his mouth, but I beat him. "And it's not just me, you know. I've got kids to look after. It's my responsibility to be the paranoid one, because that's what keeps them alive and safe. If one of them were taken away because of me. . ."

I trail off, suddenly wondering if the Flock disappearing was my fault. I wasn't in my best mind, after all. Not enough sleep, too many nightmares; it's a miracle they kept me as leader when I started falling out of trees. Did I miss something crucial that night? Some sign that the Erasers had caught up? Did I mistakenly lead the Flock into a trap because I was too tired to spot anything?

Are they missing because of me?

Nick's hand brushes mine, gently prying my fingers off the knife handle. I hadn't realized I was gripping it so tightly. "Guys, maybe we shouldn't be having this conversation right now," he says, somewhat pointedly.

My eyes widen, and I double-check the other customers in the trailer. The man with the newspaper drops a tip on the table and leaves with his bag, giving us a sideways look as he passes our table. The old women pick their conversation back up, but something in their body language tells me their cheeriness is forced. The group at the other end of the trailer has grown; another two men joined them, also carrying an assortment of weapons. I swallow a large sip of water to hide my panic. The men don't seem to have been listening to my party's conversation, but they could also just be really good actors. Or they don't care what their prey talks about before killing them.

One look in Nick's eyes, and I can tell he's thinking the same thing. Before either of us can clue James in, though, there's a loud gasp from the women's table. "Oh, Martha, look out!" And then one of the women, who had been back towards the restroom without watching her footing, trips over a chair and spills her lemonade. All over Nick.

"Oh no! I am so sorry!" She says, righting herself. Nick runs a hand over his left arm, as though trying to wipe away the excess liquid. "Here, let me help with that." This Martha lady grabs napkins off a nearby table and lunges at Nick's shirt, but he abruptly stands and walks back to the bathroom himself.

I wish I could follow him. The second the door is shut, Martha turns to us, excitement in her eyes. "Glad that got rid of him." I figured as much; nobody goes to the bathroom with their drink. At least, I don't think that's normal.

Martha ushers over the other woman. "I'm Martha, and this is my friend Gail. We're from around here." Martha pauses, seemingly waiting for James and me to introduce ourselves.

"Um, hi," James says, uncertainly. "I'm-" I kick James under the table to keep him from introducing himself. He shoots a heated look my way and then continues, "I'm really hungry." His eyes float back to the restroom door.

Gail's eyes soften. "It's okay, sweetie, we know who he is. He doesn't have to know that we've talked to you."

Martha butts in, sounding more excited than sympathetic when she asks, "You're the kidnapped kids, right? Maxine Baker and James Griffith?" James whips his head around to stare at me in surprise and fear. My muscles seize up, preparing me for flight-or-flight, but I try to pass it off as confusion.

I mean, I am confused. That's the name I gave the hospital. . .

"Excuse me? I think you must have the wrong—"

Gail's hands land on James' shoulders, boxing him into his seat while trying to be comforting. "Nobody's got to know you talked to anyone. We'll be sitting at our tables again before he gets back out."

I bite my tongue hard, fighting the urge to hit something. I knew it. I knew something would happen if we didn't keep moving. Martha misinterprets the expression. "I knew it! Gail, didn't I tell you?" She grabs my hand and almost bounces with exuberance. "I was talking to Gail over there and I saw that man's paper. People everywhere are looking for you!"

Gail leans over James' shoulder to whisper to the two of us. "We could tell there was something odd about you three the second you walked in." When she leans back, she pats James on the shoulder a few times, probably too hard. James flinches. "We've already had the waitress call the police, it's just a matter of keeping you here until they arrive."

I feel the blood drain out of my face. "No! We can't—"

"It's okay, sweetie, Nicholas Walker can't hurt you anymore. You'll be home by tonight!"


	24. The Fledgling Fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite what may transpire in this chapter, you should always wear a seat belt while riding in a moving vehicle.

Thankfully, it's at that moment that the restroom door opens. Gail gives James' shoulders a tight squeeze and Martha pats my hand reassuringly before they slide back to their table and engage in a false conversation once again. James and I have just enough time to exchange terrified glances before Nick drags his seat out and sits heavily in it.

"I'm going to smell like lemonade for the next week," he huffs under his breath. But then his fingers brush mine under the table and quickly draw away, leaving a crumpled piece of paper towel in my palm. I hastily check to make sure nobody's watching – the women, to my slight amusement, are fully engaged in a conversation about the appropriate sock color to wear with black shoes – and duck my head to read a message scribbled on the paper.

_What did they say?_

For a moment, I've overwhelmed with a sense of relief that we won't be playing a game of charades to clue Nick in. I look back up, and he's wearing a grim expression. I mouth the word 'trouble,' and that's all he needs.

Nick stands up abruptly, his chair flying backwards before clattering to the floor. James startles to his feet after, and I follow without hesitation. Needless to say, it gets the attention of everybody in the diner.

I can hear cars rolling into the gravel driveway. My heart skips a beat when I realize the police probably didn't turn on their sirens to keep the element of surprise. There have to be at least three cars pulling in, at least half a dozen cops in them. Heck, that's enough to surround the building, if they were able to sneak around before we realized they were here. The odds are in their favor, and I'm guessing they know that.

Well, they've never dealt with a desperate birdkid before.

Nick is eyeing the front entrance, but I grab him and James and push them back towards the kitchen. Our waitress – and the man I assume is the cook - is standing just inside the door, a shocked look on her face that tells me she never planned on bringing us our food. No, she'd rather watch us being carted off into patrol cars from the safety of the kitchen. Without a second of hesitation I push her into the dining area. There's not a lock on the door, though, so I throw all my weight (which isn't a lot, mind you; hollow bones) on it to keep it shut. It's only a second before there's banging on the door, from a fist bigger than what can be the waitress' or one of the ladies. Ah, the hunting party has decided to join the hunting party.

A particularly loud thud actually manages to get the door open a fraction of a foot. It's enough that a gun barrel snakes through the opening to try and wedge it open, but I slap it out of the way and the door slams back into place. The thudding continues. I search the kitchen for a better way to keep the door shut.

"Nick! Help-" I can't finish the sentence because my head cracks against the door at another hard shove. Still, he seems to get the message and takes my place, bracing his good leg against the back of a counter. My head pounding, I clamp my fingers around a box freezer in the corner and tug with all of my might.

It barely budges.

"What do they have in this thing, gold bars?" I mutter through grit teeth. I've managed to pull it away from the wall, though, enough that James can squeeze in and push from the other side. Between the two of us, we're able to drag the freezer to the door. The three of us back away to admire our blockade. There's another push, and the door wriggles on its hinges but doesn't open. The pounding stops.

"That should keep them out," I pant. I _pant_. Gosh, I hate this, whatever it is.

"Not that they're trying to get in, anymore," Nick says grimly.

James nods. "This is the part in the zombie apocalypse movies where something really bad happens."

"I could track down food in a toxic wasteland, Nick could make a weapon out of a shoestring, and you know first aid. I'd say our chances are pretty good." I rest a tentative ear against the door and strain to hear the tail end of a conversation. "The police are here."

James pales. "Told you something bad was going to happen."

Nick frowns. "The worst the cops can do with these witnesses is arrest us. They'll wait to shoot us until we're out of range."

I do some mental calculations. "How far away is that, exactly?"

Nick shrugs. "Fifteen-minute drive. Ten, if they take the back road."

"That's plenty of time, if we get caught." I pick up a heavy frying pan and give it a practice swing.

James looks more hopeful at my words. "You have a plan?"

Oh, yeah. I'm the strategist in the Flock. Always with my well-thought-out ideas, so many exit strategies, and a knack for backup plans.

Ha ha. _Right_.

Nick gives me a knowing look. "We're going to wing it?"

I roll my eyes. "Very funny. Never heard that one before." My fingers tighten around the handle of the frying pan. "And yes. Follow me."

My earlier assessment of this fine establishment proves beneficial, after all. The back door is in the kitchen. After I listen for anyone waiting outside to ambush us, Nick, James, and I slink out, skirting the ancient wooden steps and a collection of rusty cans. I reach the edge of the wall first and carefully lean around the edge.

The parking lot is crammed full of more cars – mostly belonging to cops - than it can hold, lights still flashing and everything. The cops themselves are swarming in and around the front door to the restaurant, totally oblivious to the back door. Of course, that will only last so long. From my position beneath a window, I can tell somebody is trying to get the kitchen door open again and somebody else is talking to the waitress. No doubt they'll be on us soon.

"No way," James breathes. I pivot back towards my fellow outlaws only to realize my stealth has been proven moot; Nick and James are leaning around me like we're starring in a family comedy, heads stacked and everything. But then Nick smiles dangerously, and I hone in on a while vehicle on the far side of the parking lot with blocky, blue 'COUNTY SHERIFF' stickers across the doors. The trunk is still open. A set of keys hangs out of the trunk release. (How they saw that before I did, I'll never know.)

"No. We are not—" Before I can get the words out, James and Nick are sprinting towards the vehicle. I can hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the building, so I book it out of there as fast as I can.

When I catch up with them, Nick's already fitting the key in the ignition.

James gives a triumphant whoop when the engine turns over. Nick smirks, climbing into the drivers' seat and buckling in.

"We are _not_ stealing a cop car," I say again. Not that anybody's listening.

"I am borrowing a police cruiser," Nick replies. There's a shout from behind me, and I have no doubt we've been spotted. "You coming?" James nods enthusiastically and jumps into the back seat. I want to cross my arms and argue, but then those cops pour out of the restaurant like angry wasps out of a nest, so I open the passenger door and dive in. The wheels screech as we pull out of the parking lot, and as I've yet to put on a seat belt, the sharp turn/lurching of Nick pressing the gas petal sends me flying into the closed window.

The radio attached to the dashboard blares to life, all crackles and air fuzz. It takes a few yanks, but when the wire snaps the radio splutters out.

"So what exactly happened?" Nick prompts after a minute of stunned silence.

There's a loud thump behind me, and I turn to find James plastered to the plastic partition dividing the front seats from the back. It takes a few minutes for me to find the right controls amongst the numerous buttons and instruments on the dashboard, but soon there's a whirring noise and the partition slides down.

Nick repeats his question, and James is happy to fill him in. "Those old ladies saw the hiker's newspaper. Apparently, you're a wanted criminal for kidnapping Max and me."

Nick hums. "Glad to hear you didn't assault anyone while I was gone." He veers off one back road onto another. "But this means they're trying to turn the public against us."

"We'll have to be more careful now," I translate for James. "No restaurants, no gas stations, and no public areas in general."

"How much gas do we have?" James asks.

Nick glances down at the dashboard. "Almost a full tank. Should be enough to get us through the night."

I close my eyes and take a deliberate, deep breath. I don't know what I expected when I climbed in the car, but it wasn't spending the next twelve or more hours inside. My legs are already cramping, the walls inching closer. I brace a hand against the door to try to keep it still. It doesn't help, only emphasizing how small the compartment is.

Another whirring noise, and the window starts to roll down. Startled, I glance at Nick. His dark eyes meet mine, and I shoot him a grateful smile. My next lungful of air tastes like the outdoors.

I let out a loud breath. It's not perfect, but better, at least. I catch Nick watching me again and say, "Eyes on the road," but the snip loses its heat with the gratitude in my tone. He just flicks his eyes up before returning to his reckless driving.

James braces an arm on Nick's headrest to lean towards me. "You're claustrophobic?"

I cross my arms over my stomach to keep my hands from fidgeting. "We, um, we all are. It just. . . yeah." I can't bring myself to explain further.

There's a tense moment where I can tell James wants to ask me more about it, but then he just nods and sits back. I relax into my seat.

We pass a sign that tells us we're approaching city limits, and I realize Nick's found the only road out around the police partitions. Another wave of anxiety melts off of me, knowing we're in the clear. Now, it's just a matter of getting far away and staying just out of reach of Them.

James reaches forward to turn the stereo on, and he and Nick immediately fight over what station to listen to. I tilt my head back and watch the clouds and treetops zoom by.

 

**~xXx~**

 

"Teachers and students, please pardon the interruption. At this time, we need all of the teacher assistants to meet in the teachers' lounge. I repeat, we need all of the teacher assistants to meet in the teachers' lounge. Thank you."

The class of third-graders freezes. That was the code.

A girl with pigtails is the first to break the silence with a whispered, "Mrs. Kritzfowler, is this a drill?"

Another student answers, "It can't be, we're supposed to have a pep rally!"

Nathan's fist tightens around his lunch bag, its paper neck already crumpled. Would this interfere with the assembly? How is he supposed to get away if it does?

The teacher at the front of the room hushes the students. "It's alright. Everybody, come line up at the door. And remember," she finishes by putting a single finger in front of her lips. She picks up the clipboard in the door while the students obediently file into place, ordered by the first letter of their last names. They silently leave the classroom and join the throng of quiet children in the hallways, teachers taking role as they go.

Suddenly, a loud explosion, from the direction of the cafeteria. The building shakes, a child shrieks, and all at once everybody's running for the steps. Nathan drops his bagged lunch when a teacher accidentally jostles him to catch a fallen student. That's when the eight-year-old realizes it.

This is his chance.

Abandoning his lunch to the stampede, he slips down a now-empty hallway. It's a dead end, everybody knows that. But there are rumors. Rumors of a tunnel leading from the school to the nearby mall.

The rumors, in this case, happen to be true.

The hallway is empty, so Nathan doesn't bother to stay quiet as he sprints toward the janitor's closet. Three weeks ago, he discovered the housekeeper had a habit of leaving the closet shut but unlocked. It was while hiding in it last week – from Adrian, the fifth-grader who made it his life goal to make Nathan miserable, at school and the boys' home – that he found the secret entrance.

Another blast rocks the building. Nathan whimpers and shuts himself in the closet. He almost immediately trips over a mop bucket, but catches himself on the wall and uses it to guide him. When his fingers hit the shelving, he turns sideways and squeezes past, a sink on the opposite wall making it a tight fit. When his shoulder hits the back wall, he pushes.

Just like last time, the wall swings open with a _whoosh_. Nathan smiles despite himself. This is so cool!

Suddenly voices echo up the hallway outside, so Nathan scurries into the secret passage and slides the door shut again. It takes a moment of fumbling for him to find the lantern he left here yesterday, and when it clicks on it illuminates the long, dark path to who-knows-where. He takes a deep breath, the weight of what he's about to do finally hitting him.

But it's for his sister.

He swings the backpack he's been painstakingly preparing for the last week over his shoulders and takes his first step.

_Crash!_

Something about the way the sound reverberates in the tunnel makes it sound ten times louder than it should. So when the janitor door slams open, Nathan hears. A chill runs down his spine, and he pauses, listening intently. There's talking, and then another crash, and then the sound of something shattering. The sink?

His eyes widen as the secret door starts to swing open. The eight-year-old takes off at a sprint, hoping the dust settled in the floor muffles the sound of his footsteps. Whoever is at the door allows it to swing all the way open before starting inside, giving the boy just enough time to wriggle into a deep crevice in the wall and turn off his lantern.

"Did you see something?" somebody asks. Nathan goes shock-still, trying to calm his breathing to an inaudible level.

"No, Brother. It was probably just your eyes adjusting to the dark," answers a higher-pitched voice, probably female.

A third voice interjects, lower than the previous two. "Children, remember what your Mother said."

"Sorry, Father," the first two voices – younger voices, Nathan realizes now – answer simultaneously.

"You are forgiven."

There's no more talking, but Nathan listens to the sounds of feet, definitely more than three pairs, making the uneven transition from school floor to dirt path. He watches from his hiding place as a light source approaches, held aloft by a beefy man. Following him is a slight young woman, maybe even a teenager (Nathan can't tell the difference; they are both a lot older than him, at least). She leads a shivering boy Nathan vaguely recognizes from the middle-school section of his school by his handcuffs. There's a cloth wrapped around the boy's eyes and another through his mouth.

Nathan watches, eyes wide and heartbeat accelerated, as at least a dozen similarly-situated students of all ages are dragged by, all led by other children. There's muffled whimpering echoing off the tunnel walls, and small reprimands from the teenagers scattered throughout: "Don't be afraid. You've been chosen." When the last child passes – a boy not much older than Nathan himself - carrying a lantern, the eight-year-old reaches up to wipe the soundless tears from his face with his shirtsleeve. He hasn't been this afraid since his parents dropped him and his sister off at the orphanage.

After a few minutes, there's an ear-splitting _BOOM_ from above him that shakes earth loose from the tunnel's ceiling. It's followed by several smaller but just as devastating blasts. Nathan peels himself from his hiding place to avoid being buried alive, but hesitates before continuing down the tunnel. Maybe the bad people did see him, and are just waiting for him to follow so they can catch him?

But who's going to give Angelica her birthday present?

He waits two hours in the tunnel before following the group ahead. By then, they're long gone.

 

**~xXx~**

 

"You're shaking the car again."

"Huh?" I lift my head from the window to look more grounded in the world than I feel. Nothing as lulling as hours of staring at the twenty feet of road the headlights illuminate. Nick pats my knee, and that's when I realize it's been bouncing this whole time. I stop, a faint heat blooming across my face. "Sorry."

He smirks, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "It's fine; I just didn't want you to disturb sleeping beauty."

"Hey," comes a groggy protest from the back. "M'not asleep."

"Not anymore." Then a yawn breaks across Nick's face.

"Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black, to me," I quip. Turning to the back, I ask, "James, think you're ready to drive?" He nods sleepily.

It's a testament to Nick's exhaustion that he pulls over without much protest. When the boys get out of the car, though, I do, too. "What are you doing?" James asks.

I shift my weight from one foot to another, trying to dispel lingering anxiety from being in an enclosed space for so long. "Just getting some fresh air." I look up to the sky longingly.

Nick and James tilt their heads back, too. "It's nice out tonight," Nick says. I can feel him watching me.

James' eyes get wider. "Woah, I've never seen so many stars."

Nick nods, gaze returning to the sky. "There's no light pollution out here."

I smile, letting my eyes shut as a warm breeze pushes my hair back. It's perfect for flying. "At the E-shaped house – that's where the Flock hid for a long time – we used to bring blankets up to the roof and stargaze for hours." Jeb would make hot cocoa and point out all of the constellations. I can almost imagine Angel's weight in my lap, Gazzy's soft voice describing the night sky to Iggy with his limited five-year-old vocabulary, Nudge's wonder-filled gaze. Fang's fingers brushing mine as I lean against his shoulder.

Suddenly my heart drops, and I open my eyes to the concerned faces of James and Nick.

James is the first to find his words. "You really miss them." It's a statement, not a question.

I wipe excess moisture from my eyes with the pad of my thumb and shrug. When did I become such a sap? "They're family."

"And you never stop missing family," Nick adds. I send him a thankful smile.

The breeze picks up again, and my wings instinctually branch out to grab it. "Do you guys mind if I. . . you know. . . "

James eyes go wider. "You can fly?"

"No, the whitecoats spliced me with a penguin, so I use the wings for swimming. Yes, I can fly."

"Go ahead," Nick says. He turns back to the car, then hesitates. "Are you sure you'll be able to keep up?"

I smirk. "I'll be flying circles around you all night." My wings stretch out further at the thought. "Just for a few hours, though. Flying uses a lot of energy." I grin, taking a few steps back so I have room for a good takeoff.

"Look out." My wings snap all the way open, earning a gasp from James and Nick. I start running. On the third step my wings give a practice beat; by the fifth my feet aren't touching the ground anymore. I grin down at James' shell-shocked face as I climb into the cool night sky.

"You'd better get in the car!" A sudden, warm updraft gives me another boost, and I revel in the feeling of the wind in my feathers. Below, I can hear the car doors slamming and the engine turning. With the headlights on, I'll be able to see the car from miles away, so I allow my eyes to drift shut and just _feel_.

I haven't flown in weeks. My wings are stiff, but each flap sends warmth through the muscles and slowly breathes them back to life. Up here, I can't hear anything but the wind rushing past my ears. I take another lungful of the crisp night air, and for the first time since missing the Flock, I allow myself to relax.

I fly in lazy spirals, punctuated by bursts of endorphin-fueled speed that shoot me a mile ahead of the distant headlights before I bank or flip back around. The road below is abandoned but for the stolen police car and flanked by abandoned farm land that goes on for miles. There's nobody to see me, so I free fall, only opening my wings when I'm low enough to let my fingertips brush through the tall grass.

It's an hour and a half before I notice it. I'm trying to flip out of a free fall – a technique Fang was trying to teach me before all of this stuff happened – when I spot movement out of the corner of my eye. It takes a moment to right myself, and another to find the source.

Far below me and about two miles out, there's a figure moving slowly through the tall grass. I brush it off. Probably just a deer. Of course, there aren't many deer this late at night, especially not alone. Maybe it's hurt?

I go into stealth mode, rising in altitude until even paranoid-me is sure it won't see me. Then I fly closer in order to make out the shape in the dark. No way it's a deer. Not only is it too small, but the movement lacks the grace of anything accustomed to traveling through the wild. It reminds me of James. As I get closer, I hear a sound that almost stops my heart.

Sniffling. A stray sob.

A _child's_ sob.

I actually forget to beat my wings, I'm so stunned. There's nothing out here, not for miles. More importantly, there is absolutely _nobody_. The kid is alone.

Another sniffle, and the unmistakable action of a tiny arm smearing across a face, and I lean into the fall, angling my body to reduce friction and increase speed. I land twenty feet in front of the kid and pull my wings in while the grass is still hiding them. The grass is almost up to my armpits; the kid couldn't be any taller. Even with a flashlight the child wouldn't be able to see anything.

I track the movement through the wriggling of the grass. When the child is close enough, I cautiously call out, "Are you okay?"

The rustling stops, and the still grass seems to consume the kid. I wait for an answer, but get none, so I try again. "Are you hurt?" Please, please answer me. Let me help you. "Hello?"

The grass parts just long enough for me to make out wide, terrified eyes, and then the kid is running, stumbling away blindly.

"No! Wait!" I catch up easily and wrap my arms around his waist. Gosh, he weighs almost nothing; even with my recent spell of weakness I can effortlessly lift his head above the grass. He struggles; kicks and hits and arches his back to try and loosen my hold. I just grip tighter, still careful not to crush him.

"Let go!" He pants. "Let go of me! Please!" His voice rises in pitch. "I won't tell anyone what I saw! I promise!" His shirt rides up his stomach along with my grip, and he seizes the opportunity and sinks his teeth into my arm. I'm so shocked my arms spring wide, and he collapses into a heap on the ground.

I act on pure instinct, slowly lowering into a crouch next to him. "Shh. I can help you." He's shaking, so I start to rub circles into his back. He flinches away at first, but between my whispered promises and lack of weapons (as far as he can tell), he slowly starts to ease into my touch. "There you go. It's okay."

"Please-please don't send me back."

A runaway then? Instead of making promises I can't keep – won't keep, if it's the right thing for him – I answer with a question. "What's your name? People call me Max." He gives a shaky laugh. "What's so funny?"

"I used to have a parakeet called Max."

Oh, kid. If only you knew.

The boy sits up and rubs his face, starts to turn towards me but hesitates. "I wasn't crying."

"Of course not," I answer, trying to put as much soothing in my tone as possible.

He nods, then looks me full in the face for the first time all night. He has a slight smile on his face when he says, "I'm Nathan."

But the words barely register, because I'm staring from the messy blonde hair down to the poorly-tied shoelaces. The spitting image of Gazzy. I strangle whatever sounds are trying to make their way up my throat so I can speak around them.

Forget whatever I was going to do.

"Are you hungry, Nathan?"

 

**~xXx~**

 

Nick and James have stopped again when I catch up with them. I would have missed them – they left their headlights off – but the music in the car is blaring so loud I can hear it easily from a hundred feet above the ground. I land expertly next to the car, careful not to jostle my sleeping passenger.

It only takes two taps on the drivers' side window to get their attention. Nick jolts awake, focuses on me, and takes a moment to study my cargo. Then he snorts, rolls his eyes, and gets out to climb into the back seat. With his help, I carefully maneuver the snoozing child's body into the back seat and buckle him in. He wakes enough just to make himself comfortable before dozing off again.

It's my turn to drive, so I climb into the front seat and turn down the music. James falls asleep the second I pull back onto the road. When I look in the rearview mirror an hour later, Nathan has claimed Nick's lap as a pillow. Both boys are fast asleep. Introductions – and my lingering questions – can wait until morning.


	25. To Texas!

I stifle another yawn with the back of my hand and blink a little too long. I decided a long time ago I wouldn't be able to sleep with everything going on; no reason to make two people stay up all night by forcing someone else to drive. Another yawn, and this time my eyes water a little. Ugh, you'd think I'd never pulled an all-nighter before. Luckily, I can see the beginnings of sunrise on the horizon.

With the sun up, it's much more clear how far we've travelled. By my estimation (which is usually pretty good, but lately has been as accurate as Iggy's description of Fang's fashion choices: "Uh, jeans and a sports jersey?"), we've been driving about ten hours in a west/southwest direction. If we started a few hours' fly away from the D.C. area, we should be well past the West Virginia/Kentucky border. It's not far enough for me to relax (not that I would ever really relax), but it's actually further than I thought we could get in this car.

I would have thought that stealing a cop car would cause us more problems, but this particular force must have been well-funded, because the car's got decent mileage. And apparently no cop wants to pull over another cruiser, even when the driver looks a few years too young to be a county sheriff. Even said, it's too much to expect the car's fuel to last forever; it gave a warning ding about half an hour ago, and I'm just waiting to pull over and ditch the car until it's light enough outside I won't have a repeat of the other night.

That is, until the car sputters to a stop. The little red arrow on the gas meter points to an area just below the 'E'. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and take a deep breath (definitely not a yawn). I understand now why the whitecoats were so desperate to find some new method of human transportation. (Maybe they should have looked into advancing roller blades instead of altering the DNA of infants, but hey, that's just my opinion.)

It takes too much effort to force myself to sound chipper. Er, at least not dead. "Rise and shine, boys."

James rolls away from me and mumbles something about not being a singing orphan. I never had this problem – _have_ this problem – with Iggy. Ig's usually the first to greet me in the morning, although I guess whether he's coherent yet is debatable. (He once tried to scramble eggs in the toaster, and even _I_ know that won't work).

I shift my attention to the back seat. Nick's eyes are shut, but I can tell he's awake when he runs careful fingers through Nathan's messy hair. The kid stirs, but judging by the circles under his eyes – he's too _young_ to have circles under his eyes – it's probably best that he sleeps while he can.

"Did you drive all night?" Nick whispers, his eyes barely cracked open.

I shrug like it's no big deal. It's not. Nathan shifts his head in Nick's lap and Nick grimaces. Oh, right. "How's your leg?"

He shrugs. Typical.

I roll my eyes. "Let James take a look at it while I get some breakfast out." At the mention of his name, James groans. "Sorry, James, but you know more about treating wounds than I do." At least, if his high school classes count for anything. As for me, it would be easier to learn how to treat large wounds if they stuck around for more than a few days. The downsides of mutant healing powers, I guess.

The two of us climb out of the cruiser and open the back doors quietly. Nick shifts Nathan's head onto the car seat so James' examination won't disturb him.

James startles at the sight. "When did we pick up another passenger?" He looks at me questioningly. "I didn't think we were dragging a kid into this."

Nick smothers a smirk. "You were there."

"I was probably asleep." Uh-huh. Or something.

"His name is Nathan. Found him last night in the Middle of Nowhere by himself." I frown. "From his reaction at seeing me, I don't think we're dragging him into anything new."

I fish a few protein bars out of the backpack in the trunk while James assesses the ugly scab forming on Nick's leg (apparently that's a good thing?). Nick holds Nathan while James and I push the cruiser off the side of the road, where it rolls into a ditch out of view from anyone driving by. I don't mention I should have been able to move the car by myself. Then Nathan is passed to James, I take the backpack, and we hike through the woods about an hour before I'm comfortable we won't be found easily.

Nathan wakes up somewhere along our warm-up excursion, but I couldn't tell unless I saw his eyes blink open. He's uncharacteristically quiet, and as much as I want to chalk it up to exhaustion, my gut tells me it's something more.

When we've found a reasonably soft place to rest, I stop. Without a word, Nick and James plop to the ground, breathing heavily. It's not hot, per se, but it's that special kind of humid that makes it feel like it's a billion degrees. It makes flying miserable; our wings feel at least twelve times heavier from all the moisture in the air. Nathan slides out of James' lap to occupy his own spot against a tree. I pass water around.

It's uncomfortably silent until James finally says what we've all been thinking: "What's up, Max?"

I fall to the forest floor myself and crack open a water bottle. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"Can we start with him?" Nick asks, tilting his head in Nathan's direction. The kid's fingers tighten around his water bottle, but his eyes don't leave the forest floor.

"Um, yeah." Right, the Gazzy doppelganger is weird for everyone else. I never have been good at introductions – never got a lot of practice meeting new people in the mountains of Colorado – so just put it bluntly. "Everyone, this is Nathan. Nathan, this is James and N-"

"Nicholas Walker." Nathan draws his knees up to hide his abdomen. "Wanted kidnapper."

Oh, right.

I wonder how wide my eyes go in comparison to Nick's and James'. Nick scoots further away from Nathan, as though he's afraid he'll hurt him somehow. I resist the urge to gather the kid into my lap and rub his back like I would Gazzy. Nathan doesn't really know me; it would only freak him out more.

"Woah, Nathan. We can explain - "

He hugs his knees but finally looks up. His eyes are wide, terrified as they were last night. "Are you with them? Please – I won't say anything! I just want to go home!"

Nick intervenes with a surprisingly calm voice for someone who's been accused of kidnapping. "It's okay, we aren't going to hurt you. You can leave any time you want to."

Maybe not the most comforting words in the middle of an uninhabited forest, but it seems to help. Nathan seems at least somewhat reassured, because he takes a deep breath and his fingers slacken from their death grip on his bottle. "The news at the bus station said you're a kidnapper though. That's why they - " here he looks at James and me "- are here."

"The news is wrong," James replies. I don't point out that James _was_ technically kidnapped, being forced to drive the getaway vehicle and all.

Nick and I exchange looks. Neither of us had, apparently, thought the news would spread outside of the state.

I feel a chill go down my spine at a sudden thought. "You don't think. . . Nathan, have you seen pictures? Of me?" If there are pictures of me on the news, our problems with the local authority will pale in comparison to whatever the School sends after our fresh trail.

Nathan shakes his head. "No, just of Nichol—Nick. And James." My shoulders sag with relief. "But I haven't seen the news since the bus station, and that was a while ago."

Nope, shoulders tense again. "A bus station?" Is that where he ran into trouble? And I find it hard to imagine there's a bus station anywhere near here.

His eyebrows furrow. "Yeah, but that was two days ago. I think."

"Two days ago!" James sits up straighter. "Have you been running since then?"

Nick's eyes widen a fraction at the implication. No wonder the kid was so exhausted.

Nathan's breath hitches. "I'm not running away. At least. . . I wasn't. . ." He buries his face in his knees and I barely make out his next words. "Please don't send me back."

I will send his scrawny butt right back where he came from; no way he's travelling with us. I can tell James agrees with me, but Nick's mouth is set in a hard line.

Before he can make any promises he can't keep, I butt in. "I promise we'll keep you safe." Whether that means sending him back or not has yet to be determined. Nick looks away from me, but I can tell from the tightening in his shoulders that he's not happy with my answer. Well, _I_ am not going to be responsible for yet another dropout; I already have James to feel guilty about.

Nathan, without suspicion, looks up. "Okay, if you promise. . . It's. It's kind of a long story."

I try for a reassuring smile. "Just start from the beginning. Where do you live?" Where are we headed next if this story is going where I think it is?

"A lot of places. But for the last few months I've been in Ohio." Nick gives a low whistle, and I raise my eyebrows. Bus ride or not, that's a lot of ground to cover.

"Do you move a lot?" I ask.

He fidgets with the hem of his pants. "Yeah. Miss Donna says it's because I'm getting older."

Nick's expression shifts, like he understands something. He turns more directly towards Nathan. "Who is Miss Donna?"

Nathan's face scrunches up. "She's my social worker."

And for the second time in as many minutes I want to give the kid a hug.

I remember asking Jeb what would happen if we were caught, not by the School, but by 'the world.' He said we'd be taken away, separated, and sent to different homes until we were old enough to take care of ourselves. To which I'd reply that we can take care of ourselves, to which Jeb would say the government didn't care because we're just kids without parents. I would point out that we had Jeb. He would shake his head: not close enough.

"Nathan," I venture, "are you. . . are you an orphan?"

He seems to shrink. Shrugs without any confidence. "Miss Donna said my parents couldn't take care of me or Angie, so that's why we had to be put in the system. But Adrian – another boy at Hillview – he said my parents didn't love us and threw us away."

Nick's face gets darker. His eyes flash towards mine with a sense of urgency. I do my best to ignore him. Nathan's still safer with a social worker than with us. At the same time, though, I'm distracted by a feeling in my gut. "Wait, so Angie is your sister?"

He nods. "Yeah." I tuck that little tidbit of information in the back of my mind to mull over later. If Nathan looks like Gazzy, does 'Angie' look like Angel?

"And tomorrow. . . no, day after tomorrow. . . her birthday is soon, and I wanted to give her her birthday present, because nobody at the girls' home knows what she likes. Miss Donna said I can't see her, though, because I'd miss too much school." Here he looks up, sheepish. "So I decided I would, um, take my own vacation?"

"And just how far away is Angie?"

"Texas."

James blinks. "You're joking." He looks at me. "Please tell me he's joking."

Nathan drops his knees. "I was going to take a bus all the way down, but I missed it because of what happened at school." His fingers curl in the dirt. "I was going to leave right before the pep rally, because they don't take attendance and nobody would realize I was gone until I was already on the bus. But the alarms went off, and those bad people came. . . " He shudders. "I had to hide in the tunnels until they left. I don't know if they saw me, but. . .

"I think they blew up my school."

Nick's head snaps around to meet my eyes. James chokes on the water he was trying to chug. I take a second to compose myself before prompting him further. "The bad people, you saw them?"

He nodded. "I was hiding in the secret tunnels and that's how they left."

"What did they look like?"

"It was dark. I couldn't see faces, but. . . I think they were all kids. And they had other kids, from my school, with them."

James holds a hand up, finally able to breathe normally again. "Wait, back up. You said something about secret tunnels?"

Nathan grins hesitantly. "Yeah. They're really cool." Then the smile breaks across his face. "There were rumors, but nobody really believed they were there, but then I found them!"

James looks at Nick and me. "There were the same kind of rumors at my high school. Before it exploded."

It's Nathan's turn to be surprised. "You, too? Oh! Are you from that school in DC?"

"It's close to DC, yeah. And I guess it technically doesn't exist anymore."

"Nathan," I ask, "when did all of this happen?"

He looks down as he counts. "Um, three days ago?"

I look at Nick and James. "About two weeks after the one in DC."

"And wasn't there one before that, too? Somewhere in Idaho, I think?" James adds. Suddenly he's caught all of our interest. "It was in the news, a week before ours?"

I clear my throat. "I don't know a lot about the state of the world or anything, but that's not normal, right?"

Nick nods, looking thoughtfully at a fallen tree to the left of me. "No, that's definitely weird."

James frowns. "So, what, you think there's an organization of kids going around blowing schools up? Sure, I find school as taxing as every other kid, but it seems kind of violent." Nick hums in agreement.

Nathan sits up a little straighter. "Actually, I think. . . " Once he has our attention, he looks like he's going to back out, but I urge him on. "Well, they had kids from my school when they left. They were tied up and stuff. I've been thinking about what I heard, and I don't think they wanted to hurt anybody."

James nods thoughtfully. "They did call ahead and warn the schools to evacuate every time."

Nick looks at James. "You think the school in Idaho had tunnels, too?"

James' eyes light up. "I don't know, but I bet we could find out! We just need to find a computer, get on the internet."

Nathan nods, smiling with excitement. "I heard about our tunnels from the high schoolers, but learned more about them online. I thought it was a joke, but then it sounded pretty believable."

"Last I heard, they still haven't found any bodies. I bet all of the missing kids have just been kidnapped!" James throws a fist into the air. "We can totally – "

"Y'all." I put my hand up in the universal hold-your-horses gesture. "No. We are not getting involved."

James deflates. "But – "

"Need I remind you that we are _on the run_ for a reason? We already have the police and some crazy ambiguous 'Them' after us. The last thing we need to do is attract more attention. In fact, the smart thing to do is find a cave away from civilization to live in for, like, the next two centuries." Or an E-shaped house up in the mountains of Colorado.

"Until then," I continue, "we need to duck our heads and keep moving. It's the only way we can survive."

Without thinking about it, I look to Nick, raising my eyebrows in a help-me-out-here way. He nods. "She's right. What would we do when we proved it, anyways? We can't tell anyone; I, at least, would be arrested, and at worse all of us would be killed."

"We can't just hold on to this information and not doing anything about it!" James protests.

I cross my arms. Sitting cross-legged, it probably comes off as more of a five-year-old-moping-in-the-corner than leader-getting-the-last-word-in, but paired with my personality I think it does the trick. "We can, and we will. There are rules of survival, and one of them is to look after your own. I won't let any of you risk your safety for a bunch of strangers."

"Look who's talking," Nick mumbles. I shoot him a look. He shrugs. "You don't know any of us, and you could _fly_ out of harm's way."

"That's. . . it's different."

"How?"

How am I supposed to explain it? My Flock went missing and you look exactly like them, so I'm going to drag you around as company until I find my real family? Jeesh, that makes _me_ sound like a kidnapper. I wince internally. Maybe I am. "It's complicated, okay?"

Nick mirrors my posture but personalizes it with an infuriating smirk. "You just said our goal is to become invisible to the world for the next two hundred years. I think we have time for you to un-complicate things."

"Yeah," chimes in James, "you've already explained the bird stuff, anyway. How much more complicated can it get?"

I am feeling so attacked right now. "You know what? Fine. My family disappeared and you all look exactly like them. Happy?"

Stunned silence.

"Like," James starts, " _exactly_ like them?"

I huff out a breath. "Yes. I mean, you obviously don't have wings, and your hair is shorter, and frankly my family has a little more muscle mass, but otherwise you could be twins." I smile ruefully. "The only reason I followed Nick around at first is because I thought he was a clone."

Nathan searches all of our faces frantically. "What are you talking about?"

I fill him in, this time elaborating my story for everybody's sake. By the end, my throat burns from talking through a lump trying to form. I hastily drink more water.

"And that's everything I'm comfortable telling you guys. The less you know, the safer you'll be, okay?"

Nick nods absentmindedly, lost in thought. Nathan's staring at my wings, which I let out a few minutes ago when they started to feel too tight against my back. James looks at me, opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut again. "What is it, James?"

"This might be rude, I don't know, I've never met somebody who knows my doppelganger. But which one do I remind you of?"

Whew. I was worried he was going to press for a different kind of information. "You look like Iggy. Nathan reminds me of Gazzy."

"And I'm Fang?" Nick asks, a single eyebrow raised.

I can't make eye contact when I nod. My face is heating up. "Yeah, pretty close."

"What's different?"

Fang knows me better than anybody else in the whole world. He swallows his words instead of saying them. He's got my back no matter what. "He doesn't smile much."

Nick hums, standing up and dusting off his pants. "He's probably just better at hiding it."

Something flutters in my stomach, and I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge it.

Minutes later, we've packed our bags and are surveying the forest for the easiest route for travel.

"Which way?" Nick asks.

I shrug. "West. Further away from DC, the better."

A small hand catches the back of my jacket. "Max, I thought we were going south?"

I turn around. Nathan takes a few steps back, away from me. "Why?" Did I miss something? I leaf through all of the information my brain has processed in the last half hour (hint: a bookshelf's worth).

"That's where Angie. . . ." He trails off, his shoulders slumping. "Oh, right. Sorry. Um, thanks for the food. I'll just. . ." He takes a few more steps back, then looks around, turning a complete circle, squints at the sky briefly, and looks back to me. "Do you know which way is south?"

"You aren't going to Texas, Nathan," Nick intervenes.

Nathan takes a cautious step back. "You said I could leave any time I wanted to."

"Yeah," says James, "but that was before we realized you were trying to travel across the country by yourself."

Nathan's eyes go wide. "You can't send me back! You promised!"

"You aren't going back to Ohio, either," Nick says, closing the distance between Nathan and himself in a single stride. "We promised to keep you safe, and right now you're safest with us." His head turns toward me but his eyes stay on the kid. "Right, Max?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Three teenagers trekking the country, sure, but adding a kid to the mix? Then again, I'm thinking this like I've never done it before. "Are you sure they saw you?" I plead with my eyes.

Nathan hesitates. "I don't know. I think they heard me, though. When they opened the door and I was trying to hide."

"The press will release photos of the missing students." Nick says. "When 'they' realize there's a kid on the list who wasn't one of their victims, they will know who was in the tunnel."

James, standing next to me, tenses. "They'll know who to look for."

I take an even breath, half to help myself collect my thoughts and half in hopes of inspiring Nathan to do the same. "You're right. Nathan, you're coming with us."

"No."

All three of us startle. "No?"

"I'm going to Texas. To see Angie."

I suck in a breath. "Nathan, you can't. It's not safe; that's the first place they'll look."

He crosses his arms but can't make eye contact. "I don't care. I. . . I miss her."

Nick gives me a very pointed look. An 'I know you know how that feels' look. "You did say that you have to look out for your own."

Nathan continues. "I'm going to Texas, whether you come with me or not." Gazzy wasn't called a trooper for being compliant. I am thankful for his stubborn streak as often as I am frustrated by it.

"I made a promise to keep you safe." The boys look at me hopefully. "If we're going to Texas, it's under _my_ rules. Capiche?"


	26. Dangerous Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, there's some non-graphic but still gross dialogue in the very beginning about skinning animals. If you don't want to read it, just skip past the section between the two *'s.

It takes another week to trek across the Kentucky/Tennessee border. Part of that is because the humans don't have as much stamina as me (although I begin to notice a slight decline in my own endurance), but I also have to take some of the blame upon myself. I keep getting turned around. Sure, in the mornings and late afternoons it's easy enough to judge direction by the sun, but by noon I'm relying on my instincts, which apparently decided to fly south for the winter.

We settle for the night in an abandoned barn, having covered less distance than I would have liked over the course of the day. Our supply of food wasn't meant to support four hungry people for weeks on end. I figured it's past time to introduce the boys to the Flock's lifestyle: survive by whatever means necessary. This means teaching them basic self-defense, wilderness survival skills, and paranoia, (all of which I have plenty).

 ***** "So you cut right here, under the base of the tail, but don't cut deeper than the skin. And you have to use the tip of the knife, wiggle it around under here like this."

"Ew."

"And then you twist the tail to break it."

"That's disgusting." _Crack_. "I think I'm going to hurl."

"And you use your foot for leverage, then pull on the feet like _this_. . . see?"

"Oh my gosh I need some fresh air."

"Cool! Can I do the next one?"

 ***** I smirk at James' retreat. "Since you're going back out, can you get some firewood? We'll need to cook them." He raises a hand in acknowledgement, probably relieved I'm not forcing him to partake in the squirrel skinning. "Oh, and don't take too long. It will be dark soon."

"Yeah, yeah. I know, _mom_ ," James shoots over his shoulder as he disappears into the trees.

Nathan watches me work with wide eyes. "Please, Max? Can I try one?"

I nod at the small pile of dead rodents. "Yeah, the best way to learn is through experience." Well, sometimes. Nathan holds out a hand for the knife I've been carrying around in my pocket. "Remember, it's a sharp blade. Always cut away from yourself. And if you accidentally cut yourself, tell me _immediately_."

"I promise! I'll be careful!" I transfer the tool to the boy and he eagerly starts to recreate the method I've shown him. When he successfully finishes the first squirrel, I step back to let him work without too much supervision.

I choose the opportunity to hide a muffle a yawn. Three days without more than an hour of sleep is nothing to worry about. Sleep, schmeep.

When Nick sees me come back toward the fire, where he's been taking a mandatory break, he starts to scramble to his feet. "We'll need more firewood soon. I should –"

"Sit down. James is taking care of it." He reluctantly falls back again, huffing. I hide my grin at his attitude. "How's your leg?"

"It hasn't changed since the last time you asked me." I raise my eyebrow. He rolls his eyes. "It's fine. I wish you'd let me do something. I can help."

I would let him help if he didn't finish each day's hike with grit teeth. As it is, his leg is healing, but I'm not going to tempt fate by sending Nick into the woods on his own.

There's a triumphant laugh behind me. "Max! Look! I did it!"

"Good job, Nathan! Keep up the good work!"

And then it's Nick's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You let _Nathan_ skin the food?"

I shrug. "He asked to do it."

"And you left him alone with a knife."

"I'm literally ten feet away. Besides, he's eight. He can handle it."

Nick shakes his head. "In the real world, Max, that would be considered child neglect." I know there's no accusation behind the words because he's having trouble keeping the corner of his mouth from twitching up.

So I cross my arms and sit next to him. "In the real world, humans with wings would be fictional."

Nick cracks a smile. "Most people think they are." I shove him aside half-heartedly. He feigns hurt and mumbles, "But seriously. You have to admit it's cool sometimes."

I shrug. "It has its ups and downs." No pun intended. "You wouldn't believe the growing pains. And when Angel finally began molting her down feathers, we had to sweep the house at least twice a day. And it would float around, and stick to your sweat and in your mouth."

Nick chuckles. "Yeah?"

I smile fully in return. "It was worth it, though. She was so excited. When it was time to teach her to fly, she took a running jump off the roof. Almost gave Jeb a heart attack. Fang and I caught her before she hit the ground. The next time she tried, it was between the two of us, and she picked it up like a natural."

Nick leaned back on his forearms and stared at the patch of sky visible in a hole in the roof. "What's it like? Flying?"

My wings twitch at the thought of it. "I couldn't describe it. It's terrifying and exhilarating and breathtaking. And when I fly with the Flock, it's the only peace we get."

He hums under his breath. "I would give anything," he looks back at me, dark eyes set in a serious face, " _anything_ for that kind of freedom."

My breath catches. "Don't."

"Max?"

"It's – it's not worth it, okay? Everything else. . . it's not good, it's not real. . ."

"What's not real?"

"It's all an illusion, isn't it? Freedom, because we're always being hunted, and nowhere is safe. Any time we try to feel normal the world comes back and throws it in our faces. My family isn't even real, because we're not related – "

"Max, breathe."

"And at any moment we could just keel over and _die,_ because that's how they programmed us!"

Nick sits up straighter and shakes his head. "Woah, woah, woah. Calm down."

"I can't! If I ever calm down, I could lose everything!"

He cups my face in his hands. My initial reaction is to pull away, but he follows me and gently runs his thumb over my cheek. "Breathe, Max." And I realize my heart is beating like a jackhammer, heavy and fast in my chest, my breath too light to shovel oxygen into my brain. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, and after a moment it evens out to the point my head isn't fuzzy anymore.

When I open my eyes again, Nick's face is inches from mine. He moves a hand to tuck hair behind my ear. "You don't have to be related to be family. I don't know what it's like to have all of that looming over you, but I'll always be here to help, okay?"

My heart flutters a little. Traitor.

He smirks, dropping his hands back to his lap. "Besides, being normal is overrated. I mean, look at us. We're totally human, and the proverbial crap still hit the fan."

I force myself to smile. "You may be human, but I wouldn't venture so far as to call you 'normal.'"

"Where should I put this?" James enters the barn with a respectable pile of sticks stacked in his arms. "My arms are burning, and I think I'm bleeding."

 

**~xXx~**

 

I watch Nathan and James talking animatedly over the fire, too tired to keep up with James' detailed instructions on creating a remote-controlled explosion. (It would concern me more if I weren't desensitized to it). The two of them have hit it off like peanut butter and jelly, bacon and eggs, macaroni and cheese.

My stomach growls. The squirrel, though cooked decently thanks to James' mad skills, has failed me.

Nick pokes a stick in the fire and plays with some embers. "Are you sure we aren't clones somehow?" He keeps his voice low.

I frown. "Do you have wings tucked in there that I don't know about?"

"No, but that place – "

"The School."

"Right. What if they wanted humans to compare you to? Like a control group?"

I shudder. "Trust me, you would remember having any contact with the School."

"What about twins?" James asks. I look across the fire again, not realizing that James and Nathan had tuned into the conversation.

"Not likely." I grimace. "The School would jump at any opportunity to study twins. And that would require both of you."

"So what changed?" Nathan asks.

I look to him, confused. "What do you mean? Nothing changed; I just woke up and the Flock was gone."

Nathan shrugs. "You said it looked like they had never been there at all. What changed?"

I knew I shouldn't have told them so much. It's just dragging me deeper into knowledge debt. "There was no trace of the fire. Our packs were missing. Even. . . even the brush we had to cut through to get to firewood was whole again."

"So what if they never were there?"

"Are you suggesting I've just broken free of a lifelong hallucination?"

Actually. . .

No, my wings are definitely real.

"Like, what if we are the Flock?"

"I'm not following you."

"Oh!" James suddenly leans forward. "You mean like an alternate universe?"

Nathan nods. "I saw it in on the TV once."

"What?"

"It's like, there are four dimensions to the universe, right?" James starts.

"I thought there were only three?" Does being half bird mean I miss out on a whole different dimension?

"Time is considered the fourth." Oh, okay, naturally. I knew that. James continues. "And the fifth is?"

I exchange a glance with Nick. Resist rolling my eyes at James' teacher voice. "An alternate universe?"

"Yes! It's like, every time you make a choice, you choose your universe. But the other universes still exist separately. We're just experiencing the one we created. They're all here, but they're like. . . um, radio waves. We can't hear them, but we know they're still there."

I frown.

"You can't," James falters, "You can't hear radio waves, can you?"

Nick almost spits out his water.

"What? No!"

Nathan cackles the same way Gazzy does when he's pulled off a particularly _explosive_ feat. By habit I shoot him a glare without any heat behind it.

Nick recovers and manages to reel the conversation back in before it goes hurdling in an entirely theoretical and nonsensical direction. "You're suggesting Max has ended up here, an alternate universe?" James nods. "How, exactly?"

James raises a hand to his mouth. "Well, the only way to travel between dimensions is through a wormhole."

I mentally congratulate myself on my ability to keep a straight face. "I think I would have remembered falling into a magical portal."

"It's not a magical portal, it's, like, a rip in the time-space continuum."

"Uh-huh. You watch too much science fiction."

"Says the girl with _wings_."

Touché.

"It seems too convenient," Nick says. "She fell asleep, slept-walked into a wormhole – "

"Who said anything about sleepwalking?" I manage to keep my voice calm, but inside I'm freaking out. Have I been sleepwalking this entire time? I knew I rolled out of trees, but has it escalated to the point where I could endanger the Flock by wandering away in the middle of the night?

"Chill, Max." Fang – _Nick_ , I remind myself – frowns. "I was only joking." His frown deepens as he studies my face. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I slept last night."

"That's a lie. You were keeping watch."

I huff. "I'm fine. I've gone longer without sleep." To be fair, it was when whitecoats gave me regular injections of a caffeine-like drug for two weeks until my heart almost stopped. I shudder involuntarily.

"Max?" Nick takes my hand, and I realize I've spaced out a little. As I learned through experience, concentration is one of the first things to go when suffering from sleep deprivation. He squeezes my fingers lightly. "Why don't you sleep now? James and I can keep watch tonight."

He says it like it's simple, but it's not. I probably couldn't fall asleep if I tried. "I. . . "

"We'll wake you up if anything happens. Promise," Nathan pipes up. As though he'll be alert or conscious in the next hour, let alone the entire night.

"Anything," Nick repeats, and the look in his eyes tells me he's talking about my nightmares.

I guess if I wake up before my subconscious goes crazy on me. . . I swallow. "Okay. But just a few hours. Don't think I won't wake up and kick your butts into next week if you've let me sleep in."

James snorts. "Duh."

I allow myself to smile as I get comfortable (read: finagle my limbs into a position that will leave me with maximum blood circulation throughout the night. Learned that the hard way when numb wings made a U and A fail.) Without even thinking about it, I extend my right fist.

When I realize my mistake, (which took longer than I care to admit), I blush and start to pull my fist back. Nick fist bumps me. Then Nathan, and finally James. Not what I was going for, but. . .

Surely these warm fuzzy feelings will transfer to my dreams, right?

 

**~xXx~**

 

I wake up in a cold sweat, heart hammering away in my chest again. Something's wrong.

"Lie face down and put your hands behind your heads."

Ah, that might be it.

I sit straight up, and in response there are several clicks surrounding me. "Lie down and put your hands behind your head," a male voice behind me repeats. I continue to ignore him, taking in my surroundings better. It's dark except for the beams of light from flashlights surrounding us, and the glare makes it impossible for my eyes to adjust to anything outside the circle of light on the three of us. Nathan is lying a few feet away from James, on the other side of the smoking remains of last night's fire, and is only just stirring back into awareness. He startles when he blinks his eyes open and sees all of the people around us.

Nick is nowhere to be seen, and I don't know whether that's good or very, very bad.

A flashlight shines directly on my face. "Where is the one called Nicholas?"

I blink in the light, then smirk. So they don't know where he is. Good. "How should I know?"

"You're his girlfriend." Guess I can't play dumb.

I roll my eyes. "Right, let me turn on my boyfriend radar." I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to think. "Can't find him. Guess it works better if you're actually in a relationship." Somebody behind me growls. "Seriously, though. I was asleep. No idea where he went."

Another growl. "Lie on your stomach and - "

"Yeah, you said that. No, thanks. The decomposing hay smells weird." I make meaningful eye contact with Nathan, who seems to get the hint and begins to wiggle closer to James. It'll be hard to make a break for it if he's still asleep. Until then, best to keep attention on me.

I seem to be too good at it, though, because a few people lunge toward me. For the sake of the limelight, I scrabble backward until my back hits knees. There I let my pursuers grab my biceps and wrestle me to my feet.

"Who are you? What do you want with me?" I resist half-heartedly. Can't pull all my cards until I'm sure we can all get out together. Nathan's reached James, and I watch him carefully jostle the older boy awake.

"What is your name, child?" The people "holding" me spin me around to face a specific flashlight (one I still can't see past.)

I scoff. "Like you don't already know."

The fingers digging into my right arm and shoulder tighten until I'm sure they'll leave bruises. "Our facial recognition software could not identify you," the voice belonging to the hands hisses.

Hm. They're more high-tech than I would have guessed. Probably "Them," then. That also means they have pictures of me, which I knew, but it's disconcerting that they have enough evidence to run through software. I want to peek behind my shoulder to check on the boys, but it will only give up the game, so I squint into the flashlight. "That's weird," I reply sarcastically. "My friends said my nose job wasn't that noticeable."

"Where were you born?"

Ha! Wish I knew. "West of here."

"When were you born?"

Again, answers I don't have. "It was a while ago, trust me."

The man holding the flashlight gets closer, and the beam only gets brighter as it approaches my face. I turn my head away and try to blink spots away. A hand suddenly grabs my chin, twisting me around to face the man again. I snarl and snap at his fingers. He squeezes the sides of my jaw so hard I think it might break.

"You think you're funny, but I've got news for you, kid. Something big is going to change, and you can either join us or be left behind."

Despite my calm demeanor, adrenaline starts pumping into my veins. My arms shake with the effort it takes to keep them by my side. He releases my jaw, and I spit, "I'm good, thanks."

Judging by the way his flashlight bobs, the man shrugs. "Suit yourself." Then, addressing the crowd around us (I guesstimate ten people?), "Take them away."

Ooh, how ominous.

I manage to spin myself around so I can see that James and Nathan are awake, and I yell, "U and A!"

They spring to their feet, surprising the people casually leaning over them, and sprint toward the door. Bless them, remembering their scant training. In the momentary confusion their flight causes I sweep the feet out from under my attackers, and they release me on their way down. Only two people have peeled off from the crows to chase the boys, so I'm left surrounded by six.

There's a shot, but I've ducked before I even registered it. Two tiny prongs attached to wires attached to the gun shoot past me, sizzling in the open air.

"I see you and Nick share friend circles," I quip. The guns looked the same model as the one Nick used on me weeks ago. It means they aren't trying to immediately kill us, but it would be more reassuring if I didn't know how painful the shocks could be. Definitely enough to knock me out if I'm hit too long.

I block hits to my stomach and face, but a few lucky people manage to hit my sides. Ugh, if my healing factor doesn't kick in I'm going to look like a nightmare come tomorrow. An especially forceful shove from behind knocks me off balance, and I use the momentum to somersault under attacks and into a weaker section of fighters. But the crowd has nothing to focus on but me, and they rearrange accordingly.

I manage to down someone with a wicked uppercut, and then knock another off her feet with a well-placed roundhouse kick. I'm setting up for a sucker punch when somebody jumps on my back from behind, so I grit my teeth and shove my head back into their face. A nose definitely crunches. I ignore the feeling of blood spraying across the back of my neck.

When I duck under an attack from the front, the assailant before me successfully knocks out whoever was behind me. I roll to the side and back to my feet, into an open area where I have a millisecond to catch my breath.

A hand catches the back of my jacket. I start to attack on instinct, still heaving, but my punch slows to a tap when I realize who it is. "Nick," I breathe, relieved.

"ATVs parked outside. Come one, James and Nathan are already – " He cuts himself off as he throws me to the side, both of us narrowly missing more electric prongs.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he smiles.

When I look up, we're surrounded again, and Nick and I naturally take up positions back-to-back. "We only need to find an opening. If you see one, take it." I whisper. He nods, behind me.

And They rush into an attack. Nick and I work as well together in this universe as my own, I realize. We're able to read one another's body language to plan attacks, and smoothly protect each other's weak spots like it's second nature. It's a feeling I've missed since working with Fang.

When there's only three left, I spot an opening. "Four o'clock," I mutter, trusting Nick is listening. He flips somebody over his back and barrels through the opening. I follow close behind, catching up quickly to his limp. When I reach him, I grab his arm and half-drag him along.

The familiar sound of a popping stun gun, and something imbeds itself into my jacket. I stumble as the electricity sizzles through my body, and it takes all of my self-control to keep my wings hidden. Nick has to let go to avoid drawing the shock to himself. The second it stops, he yanks the prongs out none-too-gently and helps me back to my feet. Whatever advantage we had is now gone, excepting that every single-use gun has been fired. I'm still shaky on my feet, my muscles contracting, but Nick and I should still be able to take out just three people.

Luckily, it sounds like we won't need to. Two ATVs roars around the corner and stop just outside the door. James yells from one, "Get on!" Nathan waves excitedly from the other. Ooh, boy.

We don't need to be told twice; at once five people in the barn begin to sprint towards the exit. Nick reaches James' ATV and hops on. James looks to me, but I wave them on ahead. "We'll catch up! Go!" And they speed off.

I reach Nathan's ATV at the same time the Bad Guys reach the entrance to the barn. "Let me drive!" He obligingly scoots back and holds on tight as I gun the machine into the woods.

I almost let myself relax when we reach the tree line. No way they could follow us on foot. Then an engine revs from ahead of us, and several sets of headlights blink on.

"Hang tight," I warn. Nathan's fingers lace around my abdomen. I swerve our vehicle into a different direction, spraying dirt and dead leaves across the forest floor. The line of – is that _four_? – ATVs roar after us, and I press the gas to go faster.

"What about James and Nick?" Nathan has to shout to be heard over the wind.

I grit my teeth and swerve around a fallen tree. "I'm sure they're fine. We'll meet them later." Behind us, the other ATVs creep closer. I gun the engine.

We hit a large rock that causes the entire vehicle to pitch to the side. "Max! I'm slipping!" Nathan's fingers scrabble around my jacket.

"Hold on!" I use one hand to wrap around Nathan's and one to steer. The other ATVs are still hot on our tail, but I don't want to risk speeding up and losing Nathan. I need to lose our tail.

We speed past trees and across plains for another ten minutes before I see our chance. "When I say 'go,' you need to let go."

"What!"

"Trust me! I'll catch you!"

"O-okay." His fingers reflexively tighten around my stomach, and I can feel him leaning his face into my back. I roll my shoulders once to loosen up my wings. Only one shot to get this right.

The path we're on follows a steep ridge, and I've managed to put enough distance between us and the people chasing us to risk using my wings. If I time it right, they'll chase the vehicle instead of us, not realizing we've separated. I can land on top of the ridge and look for Nick and James from there.

I steadily pick up speed as we approach the ridge. "On the count of three," I shout. "One, two, three!"

Nathan obediently, though hesitantly, releases his grip just as I unfurl my wings. The immediate rush of air snaps my wings back almost painfully, but it's enough of an updraft to lift me the few feet necessary to clear the seat. I reach down and carefully pluck Nathan as he passes beneath me.

As planned, the ATV continues its journey down the straight path, though not as steadily as it would were someone steering it. Nathan gives a triumphant 'whoop!' and I smile, giving my wings a few experimental flaps.

We don't rise though. I only manage to get a few more feet up, wings flapping frantically. I gasp as they suddenly seize, and Nathan and I fall in a heap onto the forest floor.

Headlights flood the path, and I have just enough sense to curl around Nathan before an ATV bulldozes into me.

I'm out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ride an ATV without a helmet. It's a great way to get dead.


	27. A Truck and a Trip

_“How is she doing?”_

_“Considering everything, it could be worse.”_

_“What does that mean? Can we move her?”_

_“I don’t know if that’s a good—“_

_“We can’t stay here any longer. Any minute now—“_

_“Max, please wake up.”_

_“That’s not going to help.”_

_“We have to try something! Max!”_

**~xXx~**

Nathan twists his wrists in the rope, only managing to make the burns worse. If he could just reach the hood, if he could just _see_ —the container bounces for the umpteenth time, making him hit his already-sore head on the top of the container again. This time, he has trouble stopping the itch of tears behind his eyes.

His spine aches from being stuck in the same position for so long, and he’s sure his legs and arms would, too, if they hadn’t fallen asleep.

He needs to find Max. She wasn’t awake last time he saw her, right before the bad guys—but they were also girls—dropped the pillowcase over his head. And what he saw wasn’t good, either. He never looked at birds very closely, but her wings weren’t the same on both sides, and he knows that no matter how much _he_ hurts after being hit, she must feel worse, because she was hit first and harder.

He hits his head again when the car suddenly changes direction. He wishes he had fainted, too.

It feels like the car is slowing down. Nathan grits his teeth and twists his wrists harder. If he can get his hands free, then he can get the hood off, and then he can escape this _stupid container and the stupid car and get this stupid rag out of my mouth._ This time, when his eyes start itching, he can’t stop them from overflowing.

The truck continues to slow down to a stop while he gasps behind his gag.  He tries to calm himself when the back door slides open; his captors told him to be quiet and he’s not sure whether crying will get him in trouble or not. With the door, open, he can hear the voices of people outside: just a few men.

“—in here. Take the gag out in case it gets sick again.”

“Are you sure? What if it—“

“Just because it has wings doesn’t mean it can do anything else.” Nathan’s heart soars. It’s Max! “Besides, it’s too hurt to do anything right now, anyway.”

“Still. . . “

There is a sudden, loud thump on the other side of his box, and Nathan startles as it slides a few feet.

“Sh—here, use this!”

There is a terrifying minute of chaos: banging on the metallic sides of the moving van, heavy breathing and grunts, then a sharp hiss: “Touch me and I’ll bite your fingers—Ah!”

 _Pop_!

Nathan cringes at the sounds outside. Max sounds like she’s been gargling rocks.

_He watched, petrified, as Max’s eyes slid shut and blood began to seep down her brow. The ATVs stopped with their headlights cornering them. No hiding. He couldn’t run, either, because Max was too heavy and she wouldn’t wake up._

_“What the hell. . . Ross! Take a look at this!”_

_They picked up one of the wings covering Nathan. He was pulled out of the way and to his feet by a pair of meaty hands. The fingers dug into his upper arms hard enough to leave bruises._

_He watched as a woman ran her fingers through Max’s feathers in awe, brushing dirt and gravel out of the way. Then the fallen birdkid was swarmed, a dozen people crowding around her limp form. The person holding Nathan began to steer him away, but Nathan struggled. He turned his head toward Max and tried screaming._

_“Max!”_

Nathan shudders to the present at the sound of something else cracking outside.

“She won’t fit in the box. Just. . . tie her to the brackets.”

The sound of something sliding, across the truck from wherever Nathan’s box had skid. Zipties.

“Behave and I’ll take the blindfold off.”

A _swoosh_ , and few heavy steps backward toward Nathan. “Have it your way, then.”

Nathan waits until the door is shut and locked, and then a few more minutes just in case before moving.

A soft sound catches his attention. Heavy breathing. . . and sniffling?

Nathan uses his elbow to knock against the back of the box. The sound stops immediately. But Max doesn’t say anything else. He wrings his hands in his bonds, wondering if she’s fainted again. He tries making a sound with his mouth, but it’s barley loud enough for him to hear even himself. So he tries knocking against the box again, once, twice.

“Hello?”

He stops.

“If there’s somebody there, knock again.”

He uses his feet this time, and the entire box shuddered.

“Nathan? Is that you?”

He nods his head and tries to hum around his gag in the affirmative.

A sigh. “Thank goodness. Are you hurt? Knock once for yes, twice for no.”

He knocks twice.

“Are you lying to me?”

He pauses, thinking about where he hurt.

One knock.

“That’s what— _cough_ —that’s—“ she halts, barely getting breaths in between deep, wet-sounding coughs. Nathan waits for her coughs to taper off, his anxiety racked up with each heaving breath Max takes.

“Oh, that can’t be good.” Her voice is even softer, barely coming out above a whisper.

Nathan growls and slams his entire back into the side of his box. Ouch, not a good idea.

“I need to see where you’re hurt, but I can’t really—you’ll have to get out yourself. Can you do that?”

Yes.

“Are your hands tied? Behind you?”

One knock, exasperated.

“Rope?”

Yes.

“Can you reach the knot?”

He hesitates, splaying his fingers as far as he can over the rope. He can reach the knot, but can’t manipulate it well from this position. He knocks once, then twice, hoping she’ll understand.

“Okay, you need to get your hands in front of you first. Try scooting them underneath you, and then thread your legs through your arms.

He frowns. Easier said than done. There is hardly enough room for him to sit comfortably, how is he supposed to maneuver in this space?

Max’s voice is quieter when she speaks up again. “I know it’s hard, but you can do it. You’re a trooper.”

He chews his bottom lip, moving his feet and bottom to better judge how much space he has. Then he sets his face and shimmies like his life depends on it. He has to practically suffocate himself in his knees to raise his bottom enough to slide both of his hands underneath. He pauses to catch his breath, his hands bound beneath his raised knees. His muscles tremble already, from adrenaline or fatigue or both.

“Nathan?”

He knocks once, softly, with the back of his head.

“It’s okay if you can’t do it. Don’t—don’t hur—“ she coughs only a few times, but it is weak. “Careful,” she manages.

Psh. Pot, meet kettle. Nathan sets his mouth into a determined line and leans back against the box. He raises his knees so they almost slide to either side of his head. His hands still can’t reach under his feet in the small space. He humphs around his gag, frustrated.

It’s like his hands are getting caught on something. He lowers his knees and feet and feels around the box the best he can. There is nothing on the box—his shoes! He raises one foot on top of the other so he can pry them off by the heels. When he tries again, his hands just barely slip under his feet.

Triumphant, he raises his bound hands so he could pull the hood off his head, and when that is gone he works the gag around—it chafes but it’s worth it—so he can get at the knot and untie it.

His mouth is dry from the gag, but it isn’t enough to stop him from exclaiming, “Max! I did it!”

No answer.

**~xXx~**

_“I’m scared.”_

_“Sh. It’s okay.”_

_“It’s not! What if. . . what if she doesn’t. . .”_

_Pause._

_“You want to know a secret?”_

_A nod._

_“I’m scared, too.”_

**~xXx~**

“Holy crap,” James whispers. Nick elbows him as a reminder to be quiet. But Max— “She looks like she got hit by a car. At high speed.”

“Be quiet.” They watch as the two men leap from the back of the moving van, leaving only a second to catch sight of Max, her hands restrained to the brackets on either side of her and looking more like a trapped animal than she would ever allow had she been feeling herself.

James sucks in a breath. “Yikes. Looks like a nasty head wound. Probably a concussion, at least, and looking at her wings,” he pretends not to notice the way Nick’s fingers clench, “I’m no vet but I think it will be a while before—“

“Shut up, or I’ll make you.”

James bites back his own irritation. Nick is only acting belligerent because he’s worried. And because his personality could use some refining. “Okay, fine.” Not like James wants to get caught, either.

The men slide the back door closed and lock it.

James and Nick hadn’t gotten far on the ATV before realizing they weren’t being pursued anymore, by the rest of their group or otherwise. It hadn’t taken a lot of skill to find the parade of SUVs, ATVs, and tractor trailers heading away from where they had last seen Max and Nathan.

Tailing them had been a different game. As they drew closer to normal civilization, the ATVs were loaded into a truck. Pretty soon it was obvious why; James and Nick had had to ditch their own vehicles when they reached the interstate in favor of a broken-down car on the side of the road.

(“I’m pretty sure they left it here for a reason.”

“Seems to be working fine to me.”

“Normal cars don’t _smoke oh my gosh we’re going to die_.”

“Stop being so dramatic.”)

It only got more difficult from there; every few miles a truck or a few cars would take an exit headed every which direction. James and Nick could only guess which ones Max and Nathan were in, hope they were both headed in the same direction at all. At one point, they were going to keep following the band down the interstate when they caught a glimpse of movement from one of the cars taking the exit.

(“Nick! Look!”

The car almost tilted as Nick swerved to take the exit.

“Next time, I’m driving.” The car they were now tailing was a few cars ahead of them, but they could both see as the taillight shattered from some invisible source and— “Is that a foot?”

Nick pressed is mouth into a hard line. “It’s Max.”)

James considers what he can see from their vantage point. “I know that brand of padlock. Easier to crack than to break.”

Nick looks at him for probably the first time since their group was separated last night. “You know how to pick it?”

James gives him an equally-sly side-eye. “Does PETA have an award for whoever can find evidence of Schrödinger’s animal abuse?”

Nick raises an eyebrow.

James sighs. “Yes, no, and maybe both.”

“O-kay,” Nick starts, shifting to stand and then stalling. “When— _why_ did you learn to pick locks?”

James shrugs. “I was bored, and dad keeps the flammable stuff in a heat-protected lockbox.”

“Does everyone know how to pick locks now?” Nick mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Nick scans the surroundings. “We don’t have enough cover here to get her out unnoticed.”

James tugs at the grass under his hands. “You’re suggesting we wait.”

“I don’t like it either, but acting impulsively has gotten me in trouble before.”

“So _that’s_ how you two met.”

Nick opens his mouth to protest, closes it, and shrugs. “Seriously, though. You took medical classes, right?”

“I’m a high schooler on the pre-med track. I’m no expert.”

“Do you have any idea. . . “

James thinks about it. If she really did get hit by a car—if _Nathan_ got hit by a car—there could be internal bleeding. There could be broken ribs and punctured lungs. There could be abrasions filled with dirt and gravel. All of that not mentioning concussions, fractures, deep-tissue bruising, and sprained joints.

Nick reacts to his silence with, “That bad?”

James starts ripping up the grass. “It looks like she got hit by a car or something. If that’s true, then, yeah, not great. I’m more worried about Nathan—“

“She would have gotten him out of the way,” Nick says with such conviction the vice around James’s heart loosens just a little. Nick’s fingers, though, continue to dig into the hard dirt below them.

“If there’s one thing I know about Max,” James says as consolation, “it’s that she’s too stubborn to die.”

**~xXx~**

Leaves, crunching under feet. The smell warm dirt and a fresh fire. The familiar feeling of Fang, sitting at my back. The ghost of someone’s fingers combing through my hair.

For once, a dream I don’t want to wake up from.

I listen to the Flock’s chatter for a while, unwilling—unable?—to shift so that rock isn’t digging into my back lest I disturb whatever dream I’m in and am thrown back.

Back? Somebody needs me. . .

But I’m needed here. The Flock, my family, comes first. Always.

“Fang?” asks a small voice.

Fang grunts in response. I would roll my eyes if I had enough energy.

“I think. . . “

The fingers in my hair still. “What is it, Angel?”

I can hear her shifting in her spot next to Fang. Hm. Normally Nudge would sit next to Fang, and Angel would stick closer Gazzy or me. The only times I remember them switching up is if one of us older kids were missing. I want to open my eyes, scan across the circle for Iggy, but it’s like they’ve been superglued shut. Fatigue starts to eat away at my consciousness again.

I don’t want to go.

A small hand grabs mine and squeezes lightly.

Pain cracks through my head, hard enough to send me back into a dreamless sleep.

**~xXx~**

With a final kick, Gazzy finally manages to kick the top of his box open. Sweat pours down his face and soaks his shirt, but it’s more from the heat and humidity building in the back of the moving van than his own exertion. He sits a moment on the lip of the box, catching his breath and giving his legs a chance to recover from being so cramped for so long.

The inside of the truck isn’t any brighter than what light he got from inside his box, but his eyes have adjusted as much as they can to the darkness already. He squints, making out the shape of several more boxes like his own —silent and still, thankfully—and

“Max!”

He hasn’t bothered trying to untie the knot around his wrists yet, but the rope does little to keep him from running to her slumped form and pulling her blindfold off. “Max, are you awake? Are you okay? Where is everybody else?”

She groans and tosses her head away from him.

Nathan, panicked that she’s not responding, brushes bloody locks of hair out of her face. “Max! Wake up!”

She jolts, eyes opening fast. “Gazzy?”

“It’s Nathan,” then, when her face crumples, he asks tentatively. “Are you okay?”

Max grits her teeth. “Yeah. Just. . . just give me a sec.” Nathan scurries back away from her to give her space. He watches as she takes several long breaths, but they stutter to a stop when they get too deep. Her fingers flex in their bonds, on either side of her head. “Nathan, I’m kind of stuck, so I need you to do what I say. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Nathan’s chest puffs out a smidge. “I got out the box, didn’t I?”

It startles a laugh out of Max, who winces at the movement. “You’ve been hanging out with James too much.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Use your teeth to get the ropes off your wrists. Then look for something sharp to get these off of me.”

Nathan nodded, a gesture nearly lost in the dark of the van, and got to work tugging at the rope around his wrists. “Are we gonna bust out of here?”

“Uh, yeah, something like that.” A half-cough. It looks like Max curls in on herself afterward. “I don’t know about getting out of this truck right now, but it’s best to be ready when they come back for us.”

The ropes fall away from Nathan’s hands, and he lets out a sigh of relief and rubs feeling back into his hands. When he looks back, he notices Max is trembling slightly.

“Hey, Max?”

“Yeah?” And her voice is strained again, but more like she’s trying to hold something back than force it out.

“It’s going to be okay.”

He can make out a weak smile. “I should be the one comforting you right now,” Max murmurs.

“It’s okay, we can help each other.” Carefully, as to not hurt anything more than it already is, he leans in and gives Max a half-hug. “Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

“My little trooper. Thank, Nathan.”

It takes nearly an hour of scavenging before he finds the knife Max always carried around with her stored in a box in the back. Then it takes another half hour of carefully sawing through the zipties. Max has to coach him through it, assuring him he’s doing a great job every time his hands slip and he accidentally adds to Max’s list of injuries. (“What hurt can a little more do? At this point, I’m going to look like the bride of Frankenstein when I get out of here anyway. Maybe a little more will make me look zombie-like enough I can just scare away anybody who comes after us.”)

When her wrists are free, Max takes a long moment to rub where the zipties had dug into her skin. Nathan offered her a hand to stand, but she refused, using the wall as support instead. She didn’t get all the way up before, even in the dark, Nathan could see the color drain out of her face.

“Maybe you should—“ and Max slid back to the ground. “Yeah. That.” Nathan slid down to sit next to her. “So what now?”

“Now, we wait.”

**~xXx~**

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“Angel, it’s okay. What happened?”_

_“It’s not okay! She was here!”_

_“Who?”_

_“Max! And it’s my fault she’s gone!”_


	28. Several Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know I’ve been absent for like six months; I’m starting to research and write my thesis, and it kind of sucks all of the motivation to write for fun right out of me. There may be another gap after I post this chapter, but rest assured that, no matter how long I disappear, I will return! I promised myself I would finish this story, no matter what. (I mean, I’ve already done the hard part. I know how it will end!) I will come back from my grave and haunt my laptop if I need to. So, thanks for sticking with me this far. I’m glad so many of you enjoy this story enough to bother me into writing again.
> 
> Also, I didn't proofread because I'm tired. I'll fix it in the morning.

It was stupid plan: half-baked, with no way of knowing how wrong their assumptions could be. But one of the cars they had been tailing had pulled into a gas station, and it was now or never.

Unsurprisingly, the driver and passenger, a man and woman who weighed maybe two hundred pounds between them, parked behind the station to go inside. Nick parked his car right next to theirs.

James was watching the back door into the store and biting his bottom lip. “We should go before they realize we’re here.”

Nick shook his head, checking out the vehicle next to them with a practiced eye. “It’s locked.” He glanced in the rear view mirror to watch the couple traipsing through the snack aisle. “And everyone we’ve seen so far has had a radio. We can’t risk them telling the others we’re on to them.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Ah, yeah. A plan.

Nick looked around the lot again. They had parked facing away from the store, toward a new development where nothing more than the foundation was finished. “We could dump the bodies in there,” he said, nodding toward the pit.

James rolled his eyes. “No, really.”

Nick grinned, cocking his head to the side. “See the car on the other side? It’s unlocked. You sit in the passenger seat, and when they come out we knock them out with the car doors.”

James gave him a look. “That’s not going to work.”

Nick shrugged. “It’s worked for me before.”

James narrowed his eyes, trying to find a hint of sarcasm. Not finding any, he sighed, looking back at the store again. “Here I go.” Then, turning back to Nick, “If I get stabbed—”

“I’ll dump your body in the pit.” Nick gave him a meaningful look. “Don’t get stabbed.”

James nodded, then without another word crept out of the car and snuck into the truck parked to the left of the target vehicle. Just in time, too. The store door opened and the couple came out, each holding a brown paper bag. It didn’t look like anything heavy; probably just food. But Nick decided he would keep the man from getting into it either way, just in case.

The couple approached their car without a hint of suspicion. Which was almost suspicious, but Nick didn’t have time to think about it before slamming his door into the man’s back. The guy stumbled and reached out to brace himself on his hood.

“Jerry?” The woman screeched. Then James thrust his car door open, too, blindsiding the woman and knocking her into her car. Her head bounced off the door frame and she collapsed to the ground. James looked down at her, then across the hood at Nick, with a stricken look on his face.

“She’s fine,” Nick grunted, trying and failing to get the man into a pin. “I could use a hand.”

James nodded, then reached into the paper bag and pulled out a length of rope, grimacing at the implication. “I didn’t think they sold that stuff here.”

The man threw himself back, crushing Nick against the car behind him. “James!” he wheezed.

To his credit, James was fast. He jumped over the hood of the car and punched the guy in the face with his momentum. The guy went limp in Nick’s arms. Nick yanked the rope from James and got to work tying his arms behind his back.

“Oh gosh.” James shook out his fist, watching the man blink slowly. “Oh gosh oh gosh what have I done?”

Nick rose, resisting the urge to wince when it tweaked his leg the wrong way. “He’s just dazed.” He jut his chin out in the direction of the woman. “Bring her over here.”

They checked the man and woman for weapons, but all they found was pepper spray. James was worried they had just assaulted an innocent couple, until they found the car keys and opened the trunk to find a bunch of bloody towels.

James looked like he was going to be sick, so Nick shut the trunk again quickly. “I thought you wanted to be a doctor?”

“It’s not the—it’s the _smell_. It’s so strong.”

Nick glanced over at the man and woman, who both looked like they were coming back to their senses. “We need to get them out of the way.”

They restrained the couple inside their old car and confiscated their cell phones. James insisted they roll down the windows so they didn’t die in the parking lot (Nick didn’t care too much either way.)

Then they were pulling back onto the interstate, hoping they hadn’t put too much distance between themselves and the trucks they were supposed to be following. It was about midday, so traffic was beginning to thicken. James kept them at a pace slightly faster than speed limit but not enough to be pulled over by the police.

Nick looked through the glove compartment, (empty except for registration and proof of insurance), underneath the seat (empty), and into the back seat (just luggage; only clothes and a few toiletries.) The cell phones were locked, not that they expected them to store much information on a burner phone anyway.

About an hour later, James pointed ahead toward an entry ramp onto the interstate. “Look familiar?”

Nick squinted, and when the car pulled in he could clearly see the broken taillight he knew Max had kicked out earlier. He sucked in a breath. “Yep, that’s definitely one of them.”

James started to pull back, but Nick held up a hand to stop him. “No, it would be suspicious now. They recognize this car, so as long as we stay back far enough they can’t see inside, we should be okay.”

Something in the back seat buzzed.

Nick’s eyes went wide, and they listened as the cell phone began to ring an obnoxiously generic tune. He jumped into action, reaching into the pockets of the car looking for it.

“What, are you going to answer it?” James asked.

“If I don’t they’re going to know something’s wrong.” Nick slammed the glove compartment shut. “Where did you put it?”

“Me? You’re the one in charge of it. I’m _driving_.”

The ringtone stopped, and they both held their breath. James tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Then it started ringing again. Nick unbuckled himself so he could climb to the backseat. He caught the glimpse of metal from the floor, and twisted to reach it.

“Ha!” Just before it stopped ringing, Nick opened the ancient flip-phone to answer.

The volume was turned up all the way, so they could both hear the speaker. Nick dropped it in the cupholder. _“Calico. You failed to check in after the stop. Repeat your code word to confirm completion.”_

There was silence, and Nick and James took the opportunity to silently fight over who had to answer.

_“Respond with code word or we will contact our leader.”_

Nick looked at James. James angrily gestured to the road and the steering wheel in his hands. Nick clenched his fingers into a half-fist and started looking through the papers in the glove compartment for a clue.

_“Contacting Moth—”_

“Sorry,” James cut in. Nick snapped the glove compartment shut with a little too much force, shooting an incredulous look at James.

_“What?”_

James hand-mimed for Nick to cut in, but Nick drew a finger across his mouth. He forced the phone into James’ hand and continued searching the car.

James sighed. “It’s me.” He got distracted watching Nick pause at the cupholder. The other boy started running his fingers along the seams. James squint his eyes in confusion at Nick, who looked up and pointed back at the phone.

“Sorry, I forgot the codeword,” James mumbled. He didn’t realize what he’d said before the words came out.

Nick cringed.

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. _“We’ve been over this, Jerry.”_

James gaped, half because _holy snap that worked_ and half because Nick was ripping the cupholder casing out of the car. It made a sound loud enough he was sure the people on the other side of the line could hear it.

_“Is that Mary with you?”_

James cleared his throat and blinked. “Yeah, that’s Mary.”

‘Mary’ pulled a roll of papers out of the space beneath the cupholders.

_“Why don’t you ask Mary what the codeword is.”_

Nick was rifling through the papers crazily. James caught glimpses of what looked like maps, notebooks full of names and pictures. His stomach lurched at the possibilities.

“Hey, Mary?”

Nick held up a finger, holding him off. He was flipping through a notebook; each page had several columns of hand-jotted ink.

“He—She’s busy,” James muttered into the phone.

The voice on the other end laughed. _“That sounds about right._ ”

James laughed half-heartedly, definitely panicked. Nick landed on a page he seemed to like, then nodded at James.

“What’s the code word?” James asked again.

“Canvas,” Nick answered. He tried to pitch his voice a little higher in case the phone could hear.

“You get that?”

_“Yeah. Hey, you okay?”_

James’ attention was pulled back to the road when a semi pulled in front of him, obstructing his view of the car they were following. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

_“You just sound a little different.”_

James pressed his lips together. When he released, it was with, “It’s the air. All the air conditioning, you know? Dries out my throat.” For added measure, he coughed a bit. It was weak, but the huff of laughter on the other end of the phone told him the speaker bought it.

 _“See you in Dallas._ ”

James blinked hard, giving Nick a quick look to make sure he heard. Nick nodded, running his finger down the notebook page again.

“Uh, see you in Dallas.”

But before James could snap the phone shut, Nick whispered, “Cousin!”

“. . . cousin,” James trailed, shooting Nick a questioning look.

 _“Cousin.”_ And the phone clicked off.

James dropped the phone back into the replaced cupholder. “What was that?”

“The code.” Nick held up the notebook. “I think there’s a column for every car. They said Calico when they called, so if you follow here and here,” he ran his finger from the left and down the top until they met. “Canvas.”

James gave a low whistle. “You figured all of that out that quickly?”

Nick’s eyes darted out his passenger windshield. “The Shades used to use something similar.”

James’ grip tightened a fraction at the reminder of Nick’s past. “Oh.” He looked back out the windshield, not sure what else to say.

“It’s how I knew about the cupholders, too. Classic hiding place.”

James hummed noncommittedly. There was shuffling as Nick started rifling through the pages he had found again. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered.

“I don’t know, it seemed pretty believable when they were shooting at us.”

“No, look.” James risked looking away from the windshield to the map that Nick held up. It was a map of the US, with several major highways and cities circled and highlighted with different colored markers. “Where was the first bombing, again?”

“You mean the schools?” James drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Idaho, I think? Up north.”

Nick hummed. “Then DC?”

“Yeah. What are you getting at?”

“The map.” Nick flicked it up again, at an angle James could see. “It’s the same as the bombings.”

There was marker circling cities in similar areas James remembered the bombings being. Otherwise, the map was blank: no roads highlighted or anything. “Oh.” He was stunned.

Nick breathed out, pulling the map back to study it some more. “Aunt Bess said They are trying to recruit people. Maybe They’re keeping track of the bombings so they can figure out who’s behind them and take them out.”

James cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t really believe that.”

Nick seemed to hold his breath. He scanned the map again, searching for what, James didn’t know. After a long moment, Nick exhaled with a soft, “No.” He looked up, face grave. “The guy on the phone said we’re headed to Dallas?”

A chill went down James’ spine. “Yeah.”

“It’s circled.”

 

* * *

I wake up with ringing in my ears and my throat on fire. Nathan’s head is in my lap, his fingers wound tightly around the handle of my knife. His breathing is slow and deep enough I assume he’s asleep. I manage a half smile and run my fingers through his hair. “Wakey, wakey.”

I cringe. My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling sand. Still, it’s enough to cause Nathan to slide his eyes open. “Max?”

“Hey.”

He sits up and leans against the wall next to me. I hear him yawn. His free hand slides across the floor until it reaches mine, and he squeezes like his life depends on it. It stings the splits in my knuckles and across the back of my hands.

I squeeze back. “We’re going to be okay.”

He lets out a long, loud breath. His hand is starting to shake. Then changes the subject. “Do your wings hurt?”

The question catches me off guard. I need to catalogue my injuries, but I don’t exactly want to clue in Nathan to how desperate our situation is. I settle for a half-truth, shifting and wincing when it jostles my wings. “Yeah, they feel like somebody took a match to them.”

He sucks in a breath.

“But the rest of me feels okay.” The words rush out.

I can feel Nathan giving me a skeptical look. But then my brain catches up with my words, and I realize it’s true. “I mean, I don’t feel great, but I feel a little better.” I wipe across my face, feeling the sticky parts where the blood has dried. “I can feel the cuts, and they sting, but I think I can stand now.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but Nathan’s grip tightens further. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

I shrug, because frankly I agree. “Maybe it’s a birdkid thing. A survival instinct.” Or I’m finally healing again.

We lapse back into a comfortable silence, except for the occasional bout of my lungs trying to evacuate up my esophagus. After the adrenaline leaves Nathan’s system, he crashes, head lolling against my shoulder. I focus on formulating a plan.

From what I saw while being dragged in here, we’re in a moving truck. The door opens vertically, but there’s a padlock keeping it shut on the outside. The door and the wall are solid aluminum and wood, so chances of busting through them are slim. We’ll have to wait for somebody to open the door.

While I’m scanning our surroundings for more possible weapons, I begin to feel the van decelerating. Nathan’s head slides off my shoulder when we make a turn, and I catch him just before he hits the floor.

“Are we stopping?”

I go stiff. We have less time than I thought. “Knife.”

He dutifully passes the knife to me. The now-familiar weight of it in my palm is comforting. I press my ear to the side of the truck. From the corner of my eye, I can see Nathan do the same.

The sound of cars passing has slowed down significantly, and the road sound has changed pitch. We are definitely slowing down.

“Get behind me,” I order. I angle my body diagonally to the wall and he squeezes between us. But it puts pressure on my wings, and I hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry!”

I grit my teeth. “It’s—” I swallow back the urge to cough again “—fine.” Nathan scoots back out, and I realize I’m not going to be a great meat shield in my condition. I glance toward the back of the truck again. “Change of plans, I need you to go take cover behind the boxes.”

“What?”

“Hide behind—”

“No.”

“ _No?”_

“I want to help.” Nathan scoots around to where he’s sitting next to me, facing the door head-on.

“Nathan,” I breathe. I want to pinch the bridge of my nose, but at this point I’m afraid I’ll just cause myself more pain. “You’ve already helped. But look, I can’t protect you if you’re out here. I’m not in good enough condition.”

“Exactly! That’s why I should be here. You need help.”

“No, I need you to stay safe.”

“Max, that’s not _fair_ —”

“We have literally been kidnapped, and we are trapped in the back of a moving truck, and you still believe life is _fair?_ ” I snap.

Nathan’s eyes go wide and he takes a step back.

“No, that’s not what I—” Nathan nods mutely, taking a robot step around the box he had busted out of earlier. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. But I need you to stay safe, okay? You’re my—” I trip over the word ‘family,’ remembering he’s not Gazzy. “My responsibility. I promised to keep you safe, and I’m trying. But I need you to meet me halfway.”

There was no reply, just shuffling. I sigh. “Nathan?” He’s still quiet, so I take a step toward the back.

The truck stops. Nathan gasps, catches himself on one of the boxes.

I stick a hand out to stabilize myself against the wall. Out of time. “Stay hidden. If I tell you to run, you run. Got it?” When he doesn’t reply, I raise my voice again. “Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I spread out my stance, rolling my shoulders back and my weight into the balls of my feet. My grip around the knife tightens a fraction.

I can’t make out any sounds from outside, only mine and Nathan’s harsh breaths in the stale air. So when the lock outside the door clacks against the metal door, I barely keep myself from jumping. “It’s going to be okay,” I repeat. But I don’t know if it’s for Nathan’s sake or my own.

It feels like it takes minutes for the padlock outside to click off, but I know it must have only been seconds. I take a deep breath as the truck rocks, someone jumping on the back of the truck to lift the door open.

I watch in slow motion. The first sliver of light that seeps in is silver and almost dim. I estimate it to be midmorning. Whoever is opening the doors is wearing worn sneakers, and judging from the size the guy isn’t too big. Not like the ones who got me in here earlier. I can take him. I adjust my stance, deciding to ram the guy before he even realizes what hit him.

“Max?” comes a harsh whisper. But it’s not from behind me. “Nathan?”

The door is lifted high enough I can see a familiar faded black T-shirt. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Nick.”

He starts to smile, I can see his lips starting to form my name, then he grimaces. “Oh my gosh.”

I take a chance and lean against the wall, my determination to escape leaving with my ability to stand straight. “Nathan, come on,” I whisper-shout toward the back.

The kid peeks over the box, then careens down the length of the truck to hop out. Nick puts out a hand to stop him from jumping out just yet. “Hold the door and keep watch for me, would you?”

Nathan nods, propping the door on one shoulder. Nick has to duck under the door to get to me.

I push myself off the wall under his scrutinizing gaze. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Is it?” he asks with an undertone of accusation.

My brow furrows. “Yeah. I mean, it hurts but I’m on the mend already.”

Nick scoffs, stepping closer to inspect the blood running down the left side of my face.

I am suddenly very aware of his close proximity. “Uh, head wounds bleed a lot.” Nick runs rough hands gently over my hairline. I can feel my cheeks burning—luckily it’s probably hidden under all of this dried blood—and I flinch back when his fingers skirt my temple. There must be a knot there.

Nick’s frown deepens. “Sorry.”

I start to cough. Except this time, it doesn’t want to stop.

Nick steps back, eyes wide and hands poised just over me, like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. “Max?”

I gasp for air between loud expulsions. My knees almost give out, but Nick catches me and lowers me to the floor carefully. I turn my face away from him into the crook of my elbow so he can’t see what I know will be there.

“Nathan, how long has she been coughing like this?”

Nathan’s face in pinched. “Since she woke up, after they brought her in here.”

Nick curses. “Max, we’ve got to go. Let me carry you.”

I shake my head. His leg is still healing, and the last thing we need to do is compromise it right now. But Nick isn’t waiting for my answer; the next thing I know he’s hoisted me up and over his back. On reflex I wrap my arms around his neck and wrap my legs around his waist so I don’t slide down.

“Let’s go,” Nick orders Nathan. The boy nods resolutely and hops off the truck after Nick and me. I was right; it looks to be about midmorning. The truck is parked in a nondescript parking garage, empty except for a smattering of cars, all occupants unaccounted for. “Follow me. James is parked nearby.”

As much as I don’t want to admit it, I wouldn’t have been able to run that far by myself. Even riding piggyback, the jostling is enough to send fresh waves of pain through my wings and up my spine. I do manage to reign my breathing back under control, though.

When I’ve got the extra distraction of breathing out of the way, I tune my focus to my surroundings more clearly. I can hear cars, birds, and. . . is that a siren? In the distance?

“Can you hear that?” I ask Nick.

I can’t see his face, but I can tell by his tone he’s more focused on getting me to the car than answering my question. “Hear what?”

“It sounds like a siren. An alarm.” Warning bells are going off in my head, too. Something I almost understand.

Nick doesn’t answer for a second, and I think he’s going to ignore me. Loaf that I am. But then, “I don’t hear anything.” I may imagine it, but I think I can see his jaw clench minutely. “You probably have a concussion.”

“Oh.” But the ringing in my ears sounds different from the sound I’m hearing now. Huh.

James is sitting in the drivers’ side of the car I distinctly remember being present when I was dragged from the trunk of the other car. “You guys stole one of their cars.” I can’t help but grin.

Nathan launches himself into the back seat. Nick helps me get settled in next to the kid. “Yeah. Seemed like the best way to get to you guys.”

He gracefully slid into the passenger seat. “Let’s get out of here.”

James nods and steers the vehicle up the ramp toward the exit. I watch the world outside our windows in confusion. Moderately populated city. It’s warmer than where we were captured. But also, “Where is everybody?”

James opens his mouth to speak, but Nick beats him to it. “No idea. A meeting of some kind?”

I have to be imagining the look James is giving Nick. And the look Nick gives back to James. “We used the radio,” James speaks after a second. “Volunteered to keep watch while they left.”

“Oh,” I say. I look over at Nathan, who’s leaning against the door and staring out his window wistfully. “Told you we’d be okay, didn’t I?” I tease.

He smiles tightly and nods. It’s not as much as I had hoped for.

James blanches a second before asking, “Did you guys run into anybody?”

“No, why?” I ask.

“Nick’s bleeding,” James answers.

Nick’s hand flies up to his neck, and I lean forward to inspect the blood smeared there. My stomach turns. “He’s fine. I think it’s just rubbed off of my arm.” It’s disturbing how easily the lie rolls off my tongue. But seeing everybody present look over my undoubtedly mangled body only strengthens my resolve: they can’t know I’ve started coughing up blood.

I sit back in my seat uncomfortably. James clears his throat. “We should check you over. You don’t look too good.”

I’m too tired to argue, and frankly I feel like crap. “Sure.” I consider the houses I’ve seen, the traffic. “But wait until we get outside the city.”

James pulls us onto a highway without incident. He reaches to turn on the radio, but Nick shuts it back off quickly. “Max and Nathan should rest. The music will distract them.”

Bull. And I tell him as much.

Nick squeezes his eyes shut. “Fine, I just really hate the music stations here. All they play is _country_.”

“I like country,” James says uncharacteristically forcefully, reaching for the radio dial again.

But Nick intercepts him again, knocking his hand out of the way. “I think Max has a concussion. She was talking about hearing a ringing or something earlier.”

James glances at me in the rear view mirror. He huffs, giving a heated glare toward Nick. “Fine.” He adjusts his posture and faces the road more squarely. “If the ringing doesn’t stop after you wake up, let me know.”

I nod almost absently, eyes flitting between Nick and James. There’s something here I’m missing. Something tense between them. But before I can ask about it, Nathan gasps.

“What is it?” I ask him, worried he’s suddenly found some injury his adrenaline had been keeping at bay.

“I know this place, where we are. We’re in Dallas.”

Nick nods slowly in affirmation. “We passed the road signs on the way in.”

Nathan, so tired and defeated not two minutes ago, looks like he’s about to explode with enthusiasm. “This is where my sister lives!”


	29. Another Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s like one cuss word in this chapter. Also, the moment you’ve all probably been waiting for.

We drive a long hour outside the city before we even start to look for a place to stop. Dallas is a big enough city that we’d have to drive pretty far before getting out of the ‘burbs, so I tell James to stop at the first public park we pass. It happens to be on the coast of what looks like a giant lake, and, lucky us, the park is a big one.

“They have hiking trails. Should we follow one of them and turn off at some point?” Nathan asks.

I shake my head. My chest burns from the effort of holding back an hour’s worth of coughing fits. “It’s off season, so we shouldn’t see many people.” That reminds me, “And we’ve gotta get you cleaned up. With _sterile_ water.”

Nathan shrugs. “I’m not the one who looks like they walked off a zombie movie set.” He has a little blood on the hem of his shirt and in his hair, but otherwise looks like your typical outdoorsy, gutsy eight-year-old.

Me, on the other hand.

“I want to look at that gash on your arm,” James says from the front. He parks the car in the furthest campsite from the entrance to the park. “And check for a concussion.”

I climb out of the car the second it’s stopped moving, grateful for the fresh air. It eases my aching lungs a little. I’m less grateful for the way my joints protest me stretching them. With a grimace, I brace myself against the side of the car when the world tilts slightly. “No need, I have a concussion.”

James shuts the car door behind himself. “How could you—”

“Poor balance, ringing in the ears, headache—” I realize I’m squinting, “—and sensitivity to light. That’s enough.”

James frowns. “What about nausea? Difficulty concentrating?”

“Trust me, I know a concussion when I feel it.”

Nick rolls down his window—it’s a manual, which I thought had gone out of style about a decade ago—to frown at me. “Then sit down before you pass out on us.”

I roll my eyes. “Come out here and make me.” But I have to admit it’s sound advice, so make my way toward a patch of soft-looking sand in the shade.

Nick turns to James. “Isn’t irritability another symptom of a concussion?”

James doesn’t respond with the joviality I would have expected. His brow furrows. “This is serious Nick.”

Nathan pops out of the car with all the energy of a squirrel on sugar. “We’re going back right? To find my sister?”

Nick and James look at me surreptitiously, averting their eyes if I try to make eye contact. Nathan’s been babbling about what he’ll do when he finds his sister for the entire trip here, and nobody has had the heart to tell him what a stupid idea it is to travel back into the city and start poking around. We told him we’d get him to Texas, but we _promised_ to keep him safe, and going back is the opposite of that.

Nathan senses our hesitance and his face falls. “You’re kidding, right? She’s right there! We’re so close!” His face contorts with all of the anger and frustration he must have been feeling all these weeks on the run. “We’ve come all this way and you want to give up just like that?”

I sigh. “Nathan, you know it’s more complicated than that.”

“No!”

I almost jump at the volume he uses. Gazzy never yells at people, much less me. I set my jaw, ready to snap back at him, but James interrupts. “Nathan, we can’t do anything looking like this. Why don’t you go start to clean up and we’ll talk about it?”

Nathan clenches his fists. “I know what that means.”

“We haven’t made any decisions yet,” Nick says. He puts a hand over his shoulder and starts to guide him toward the water spout. “Let’s go.”

Nathan scowls but leaves. Nick looks over his shoulder at James and me, something heated in his gaze. I raise an eyebrow at him in confusion, but he just subtly shakes his head and follows Nathan.

“What was that about?” I wonder out loud, once Nick’s out of easy earshot. Not that I think for one second he isn’t straining to hear every word that’s being said.

James watches Nick’s back scornfully, which again is weird. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just moody.”

I know teenage angst, and that was something different. There’s clearly something going on between Nick and James. I decide to bide my time until I can figure out what. “Can we get this over with?”

James nods and starts a basic physical examination like a pro. It helps that doing one every day for the first eight years of my life means I know the protocol better than most medical professionals.

“Are you sure this doesn’t hurt?” James asks a few minutes later, carefully palpating the large knot he tells me is on my forehead.

“Nope, not a bit.”

“Uh-huh.” Clearly not buying it but not calling me out yet. “Put your arms—yeah. Push up.”

“Ow.”

He stops. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

I meet him with a lopsided grin. “I’m kidding.” I push up again and easily knock him off balance.

It turns out to be a bad decision, because the dust that the fall kicks up sticks in the back of my throat and triggers a gag reflex, which quickly turns into another fit of coughing. I mask whatever might be coming out of my mouth by aiming into the collar of my windbreaker.

James’s brow furrows as he sits up again. “That doesn’t sound good. Are you getting anything out?”

I shake my head, once my coughing has subsided to heavy mouth breathing that tickles the back of my throat and burns my lungs. “I think I’m getting sick.”

“I thought you couldn’t get sick?”

I shrug half-heartedly. “New universe, new illnesses?” Another blip of coughs follows. I scrunch my nose. “Ugh, I hate this.”

“It should go away after another day or two.” He tilts his head to the side, smiling a little. “Now you’re officially initiated into our universe. Congratulations.”

I eye him from where I’ve hidden my face between my knees and crossed arms. “No thanks.” Except he isn’t looking at me, he’s eyeing Nick and Nathan.

That’s it. “What’s wrong?”

James stiffens, “Nothing.” He glances over his shoulder back at Nick again. It’s quick but not nearly as subtle as he thinks it is.

“Uh-huh.” I cross my arms. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Who?”

I just raise my eyebrows.

James checks over his shoulder again. Nick is looking back at us suspiciously, then Nathan comes up behind him and empties a bottle of water on him, effectively breaking his concentration and balance in one fell swoop. Deciding he’s distracted enough, James turns back toward me and leans in, voice low. “There’s something I think I should tell you.”

I lean in, too. “Well?”

He hesitates only a moment before starting. “When you and Nathan were captured, Nick and I found—”

“Max! Help!”

I look up in time to catch a sopping-wet Nathan as he barrels into me. “Oof.” Nick is close behind, holding a full water bottle. I glare at him over Nathan’s head. “I dare you.”

A wicked grin spreads across his face, and I can practically see horns sprouting. He shrugs, and next thing I know there’s ice cold water streaming down my face into my lap and onto Nathan.

“Nick!” I shriek.

James rises to his feet. “Stop.”

Nick squares his shoulders. “Chill, man.”

I frown. “Yeah, James, it was just a joke. I’m fine.” Wet and cold, but fine.

Something in James’ face tightens. “Can I talk to you? Alone?” he asks Nick.

Nick glances down to me, still cradling a sopping wet, shivering Nathan in my lap. I don’t think I hide my suspicion well, judging by the expression he makes. He jerks his chin in the direction of the car. “Yeah.”

They head over with heavy footfalls and tense backs.

When the car doors have closed behind them, Nathan whispers, “What’s up with them?”

“It’s not just me?” Good, I had thought I was reading too much into things. Bros being bros, you know?

“They’ve been weird. Quiet.”

“Yeah.” I start wiping at the water on my skin. It’s cool in the summer heat and has the added bonus of washing away some of the dried blood. After a minute, I venture, “How’re you holding up?”

Nathan takes a shaky breath and slips out of my lap. “I miss Angie.”

I bite my lip. “You understand why we can’t go back.”

He huffs. “Yes! I’m not stupid!” That gets a look from James through the car window. Nathan lowers his voice again. “It’s just. . . she’s right there, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

He must hear the heaviness in my voice because Nathan looks up from his lap, eyes wide. “Sorry, Max. I forgot.”

I offer a smile. “It’s fine.” It’s not, but that’s what you say when you’re stuck in an alternate universe with the happier versions of your dysfunctional family. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Nathan nods.

“I wish we could get her, too.”

“You think she’s like Angel?”

I hold up a hand. “This tall, blonde curls, big blue eyes, uses her cuteness to manipulate people into getting her things?”

Nathan snorts. “Yep, that’s her.” His face falls. “Wishes are useless, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I used to wish every night that I would get to see her again. And here I am, but—Max?”

My mind is a thousand miles away.

_Wish_.

“You wished? On a star?”

Nathan shrugs. “I know it’s stupid, but yeah? On the first star of the night. Or a shooting star, when I saw one.”

Holy crabapples. “It’s impossible.”

“What?” Nathan peers up at me. “Should I get James? Is it your concussion?”

I shake my head, eyes unfocused. “No. I made a wish, too.”

Nathan looks confused. “It’s just a game. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I focus my eyes on him, excitement and dread building in my gut. “Nathan, I wished that the School had never existed. And then I woke up here, and it’s like the Flock disappeared, but it didn’t because there’s _you_ and Nick and James and the Erasers don’t exist. . . “ my voice fades out as I realize something. “That means this is my own fault.”

Nathan studies me. Searches my eyes. “I’m going to go get James, okay? Just sit tight—” He stands, and I pull him back down.

“Wait. Just hear me out.”

He hesitates, looking at the car. Nick and James’s voices drift over, fraught with tension and raised a little louder than they should be. I make a mental note to deal with whatever _that_ is when this conversation is over.

Nathan sighs, sitting back down. “I thought we decided you were sucked into an alternate universe.”

“I know, I know. But this is too much of a coincidence, right?”

Nathan stares at the ground, considering. “I guess,” he hedges.

I know he’s not really on board, but my mind is running a mile a minute and it feels too _right_ to be wrong. “So I’m not looking for a wormhole or anything. I’m looking for a way to reverse a wish.” My legs, which had begun to bounce in excitement, abruptly stop. “How do I do that?”

Nathan shrugs. “I don’t think it works like that. Everybody always makes a second wish.”

“Okay, I can work with that.” Carefully, I lean back, propping myself up on bruised elbows so I can stare at the sky. “If this works, I get to go home.”

Nathan is silent, picking at the tuft of grass by his feet.

I frown. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

He can’t meet my eyes. His hands tighten, pulling some of the dry strands out of the ground. “When you leave, what happens to us?”

Oh.

I take in our ragtag team: a gang boss, an aspiring doctor, and a foster kid, all of whom I’ve managed to uproot. A bunch of tumbleweeds trying not to get caught in a prairie fire. Nick will have to stay on the run. James should go back to school—if there’s anything left of it—and continue a normal life. Nathan, though. . .

“Tell you what.”

Nathan finally looks back at me again.

“We’re going to go see your sister.”

 

* * *

 

 

“She needs to know.”

James has his feet propped on the dashboard in a show of fake casualness. The map he and Nick found under the cupholders rests across his lap and between his tense hands.

Nick, in the driver’s seat, doesn’t bother trying to hide his anger. “She has enough on her plate as it is. If she decides she wants to take it down—”

“You don’t know that she’ll do that.”

Nick laughs humorlessly. “Are you kidding me? She’s too compassionate for her own good. She would save the whole world if she knew how. It’s practically a hero complex.”

James’ lips press into a hard, flat line. The map in his hands wrinkles under his tight grip. It hadn’t taken rocket science to use the notebooks and map to figure out that the giant organization was run by somebody called Mother based in southern California.

“You’re telling me we can’t trust this information with police or the media. Unless you have a direct phone line to the FBI, Max is our best option for taking these people down. If anybody could do it, she could.”

“No.” Nick’s demeanor takes on something stormy. James wonders if it is the same façade he uses when encountering rival gangs. “Telling her would be sending her on a suicide mission.”

“You act like she’s stupid!” James realizes his voice has jumped up an octave and forces himself to lower it to match Nick’s. “Max is a leader. She can make her own decisions.”

“If you tell her, I’m leaving.”

James scoffs. “Doubt it. With this _thing_ you have going on with her—”

“There is no ‘thing!’”

James plants his feet back on the ground in exasperation, all pretense of calm gone. “Wake up, Nick! How do you see this playing out? The four of us spend the rest of our lives on the run while some big secret organization takes over the world? You want to have a little island to yourself with Max where you can sip on coconut milk and honey all day and watch the world burn?”

Nick’s ears are red. “I don’t want to die!”

“Neither do I!” James is too loud, he knows. He doesn’t care. “You’re threatening to leave? You’re afraid of telling Max because then she’ll realize what a selfish prick you really are!”

“You’re calling _me_ selfish? Mister I’m-going-to-be-a-doctor? Mister let’s-tell-the-news-and-the-police-and-get-famous? You’re just as bad as Max, except your head is stuck so high up your ass you still haven’t realized that you were never supposed to be here!”

“That is not what I said!”

“Oh, don’t start being humble now.”

James opens his mouth to retort, but notices that Max and Nathan are finished with whatever conversation they had been having. They are both looking toward the car. So he takes what is supposed to be a calming, deep breath. It sounds more like a silent, angry growl.

“I won’t tell her.”

Nick’s chest rises and falls in relief that he doesn’t show on his face. “Glad you’re finally seeing reason.”

James points a finger at him. “You will.”

Nick frowns. “No.”

They sit in tense silence. Outside, Max is using the damp hem of her shirt to gently clean the blood out of Nathan’s hair. James doesn’t know what had transpired between the two, but they both look content.

He hates the possibility of ruining that. But, “Max isn’t stupid. She’s going to find out sooner or later.” He folds the map up and hands it back to Nick. “It will be better coming from you.”

Nick tucks the map back under the cupholders.

James sighes. “The ball is in your field, Nick. I hope you make the right decision.”

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a few minutes for the boys to emerge from the car, and when they do I have the suspicion that whatever they had been talking about didn’t help to defuse the tension between them. James leaves first, shutting the door firmly behind himself. Nick waits a few minutes before slinking out behind him.

I don’t bother beating around the bush. “We’re going back into Dallas.”

They have the decency to look shocked at my decision. Nick is the first to speak. “Why?”

“To find Nathan’s sister.”

“I distinctly remember us deciding not to do that.”

“We said ‘maybe.’”

Nick, James, and Nathan all give me incredulous looks.

“Okay, so we said no. But I changed my mind. This could be important.”

“We’ll be caught. They’ve got to be looking for us by now,” James says.

I shrug. “I won’t go. But James, you aren’t too obvious. You pass for normal.”

“Thanks?”

I softly nudge Nathan’s back. “Take Nathan with you. Look for an agency or something.” Looking at the kid’s dirty jeans and bloody shirt, I tack on, “Grab him a change of clothes on the way.”

James levels a look at me. “I’m not comfortable stealing.”

I shrug. “There are usually clothes donations in big cities like this.”

“Or use the five-finger discount,” Nick chimes in. When he sees me pull a face, he continues, “You literally stole from a hospital not two weeks ago.”

I shrug. “Fine. James, look for a souvenir shop. They usually have jackets and stuff outside the store you can lift easily if you’re fast.”

Nathan’s been quiet. James notices, and puts a hand on his shoulder, crouching down to his height so he can look him in the eye. “Hey, you are supposed to be happier about this.”

“I forgot until now, but I left her present in the barn.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s going to explode from happiness at just _seeing_ you. You have nothing to worry about.”

“You think so?” He looks up shyly through his lashes, and I resist the urge to snort.

“I can see the family resemblance.”

Nathan’s face scrunches up and he sticks his tongue out. He’s obviously over his momentary funk. I can practically see the excitement starting to buzz through his blood. “James! I’ll beat you to the car!”

James huffs a laugh. “Yeah, right, pipsqueak!” He gives him a good-hearted hair ruffle as he passes.

Nick watches me as they get in, one eyebrow raised. His jaw is still tense. There’s still something. . . off, between him and James.

“We’ll meet you guys back here before sundown,” James says, shooting fingerguns in our direction. “And Nick. . . “ he seems lost for words when met by the other boy’s dark look. He recovers quickly with, “Keep Max resting up. No adventures until she can stand without fainting.”

The rock next to me looks the perfect size to chuck at a head.

Before Nick can reply, Nathan announces, “I’m sitting up front!”

We watch them pull away from the site and then around the corner, out of sight.

Nick sits down next to me. “That was a stupid decision.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “But, worse-case scenario, James and Nathan are picked up by authorities. They lie about escaping their kidnappers and are sent home.”

“No, worse-case, Nathan is recognized by one of Them and he and James are never seen again.”

There’s ice in my gut, but I shake my head. “There are too many witnesses here. They won’t try anything in such a public space.”

Nick hums a ‘maybe.’ He leans back and props himself up on his hands.

“What is going on between you and James?” I ask.

Nick isn’t stupid enough to try and hide it. “We disagree about something.”

I roll my eyes. “That much was obvious.” After a beat of silence, I push, “I’m not going to ask because you’re going to tell me.”

Nick huffs. “What are you going to do? Ground me?”

I put on my best mom face. “Don’t make me count to three.” His laugh is more genuine this time, but he still shakes his head. “Please, Nick. Tell me what’s going on.”

He takes a deep breath, head tilting back to look at the tree above us. “Fine.” His eyes cut back to me briefly. “But you can’t tell him I told you anything. He’ll be upset.”

Something about that seems wrong to me, but I nod. I’ll deal with it later, when it doesn’t hurt so much to breathe.

“When we were going after you and Nathan, James and I searched the car. We found a radio, and we could hear conversations people were having.” He shifts uncomfortably. “They know, Max. About your wings.”

Oh.

Some part of me knew. They had to know; they had found me with my wings out. I just hadn’t realized word would spread so fast. I swallow, hands tensing into fists where they rest by my sides.

“James was worried it would stress you out too much. He though you couldn’t handle knowing, because of. . . the stuff you told us.” He looks back to me, searching my face. “But I know that you’re strong.”

I nod absentmindedly, not able to bring myself to make eye contact. “Thanks for telling me.” I inhale deeply, trying to calm my racing heart. “This. . . “ I release the air, “complicates things.” I’m an even bigger target now. A kid with wings, who has managed to kick everyone’s butt for at least three weeks? Just when I thought I didn’t have to worry about the School, somebody else has probably decided they want me as their weapon.

I don’t realize my hands are shaking until Nick’s hand, still propping himself up, nudges mine. “Hey, Max.” My focus zips back to him. “It’s going to be okay, we’ve got this.” His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, and he looks down at it. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Despite myself, I snort. “Really? I thought you knew me better, Nick.” I don’t move my hand away.

He cracks a grin. “I knew it would pull you out of your downward spiral. It worked, didn’t it?”

I elbow him softly, but can’t deny how much lighter I feel. Nick grins, ducking his chin. His fingers brush my hand again, coaxing it out of a fist, and then our fingers are interlocked.

I bite my tongue, looking away from Nick, toward the lake. It’s calm, deserted on a school day except for a few ducks. There’s a constant cool breeze rolling in off the lake, ruffling the mangled feathers in my wings. I ignore the feeling until a particularly hard gust has my wings instinctually twitch in response. I can help the gasp that escapes when pain lances up the joints.

Nick stiffens next to me. “You wings.” He releases my hand so he can face me more squarely, running fingers carefully across my feathers. His face is grim. “How bad?”

I start to open them too fast, and the stretch is enough I want to start coughing again, but I swallow it down with a will of steel. Carefully, so as not to wrench the sore ligaments and tendons inside, I try again. They stretch until I can see them on either side of myself.

There are feathers missing, and those that remain are speckled with dirt and blood and rest askew against my skin. No wonder they feel so terrible. I bend my right wing closer to myself and begin preening.

I haven’t had to preen for a long time; our wings are mostly self-sufficient. We don’t have to add oil or anything to keep them working properly. The last time I remember doing anything similar was when Angel was molting, and that was mostly showing her how to do it comfortably.

I brush dirt and gravel and small twigs from underneath the feathers and reverently place them so they lie flat against my skin again. I’ve worked about halfway down my secondary coverts when Nick clears his throat behind me.

I look back at him, my embarrassment probably clear in my red cheeks. Preening one of the few things I have to do that really pushes the boundaries between human and bird. “Sorry, I know it’s weird—”

He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tilting up into the hint of a shy smile. “Show me?”

All this blood rushing to my face cannot be good for my blood pressure. I manage to keep an even voice when I reply, “Sure.”

I stretch out my left wing a bit more, within his reach. “Start at the top here, with the smaller feathers.” I show him the pattern I use, the movement to clean the feathers and adjust them without pulling too hard or making anything worse. When I’ve finished one section, my hands falter. “And that’s—that’s it.”

Nick is looking at me more intensely than I’ve ever seen before, but it’s a soft kind of intense. The kind that makes me want to melt. It’s the face I see on Fang when he thinks I’m not looking.

He blinks once, and his eyes reign whatever it was back in. He reaches a hand out questioningly, then pauses. “May I?”

I nod, not confident my voice will hold.

His touch is softer than I would have imagined, his hands so familiar but so different than Fang’s at the same time. He doesn’t have the scars of IV ports ripped out or the hard callouses of gathering firewood. But his fingers brush down my secondary feathers with the care somebody would handle ancient glass. A shiver runs down my spine, surprising me and pushing more heat to my face.

Nick pretends not to notice, concentrating intently on his work. I turn away to focus on my other wing before I can make more of a fool of myself.

We work almost an hour in pleasant silence. When Nick reaches the end of my left wing, he shifts back so he can begin preening the back of it. I freeze at the first sweep of his fingers, at the sensitive junction where my wings meet my back.

He senses it and stops abruptly, “Sorry.”

I’m glad he’s behind me so he can’t see the heat rising to my face again. “’S’fine.” I run out of wing on the inside so start doing what I can blind on the back side of my right wing.

Nick corrects a few feathers around my back, then his hands falter. “Hey, Max?”

I keep my fingers busy, trying to distract myself from how close he is. “Yeah?”

“I would really like to kiss you right now.”

My hands falter. I take a moment, looking out over the lake. I can feel Nick shifting nervously behind me. “Yeah?” My voice is higher than normal.

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

I bite my lip, fighting back the smile spreading across my face. I look over my shoulder at him, and I’m sure he can see in my face what I’m going to say because he lights up. I study his olive skin, his messy black hair, his brown eyes. His mouth.

“What’s stopping you?”

He leans in and kisses me.


End file.
